The Day A Father Dies: A Love Story

I have been encouraging people to share stories about losing their parents because those are among the hardest days to live through and yet they come to almost everyone. I recently shared the story of my mother’s death and now it’s my dad’s turn.

One Friday night my family went to my father’s house for our weekly dinner. As Dad walked up the steps into his kitchen, carrying the plate of barbecued chicken he had just prepared outside in the backyard, I heard a deep wheezing in his chest. “Dad,” I said, “you don’t sound good. Do you feel okay? Do you have a cold?”

“Nah,” he answered,”I mowed the lawn today and must’ve breathed in some grass.”

“Did you stop mowing and sit down when you started feeling bad?” I asked.

“No, I had to finish mowing.”

Seven weeks later, he was dead from the massive cancerous lung tumors.

Since I insisted he see a doctor after I heard that wheezing, he went the next day and they told him he had a collapsed lung from stage 4 lung cancer. (Yes, you read that right, collapsed lung and yes, he finished mowing the lawn and then barbecued dinner!) I was grateful for the gift of knowing in advance that he was going to die so we were able to spend that 7 weeks together, as a family, helping him enjoy his last days on Earth. They were simultaneously the saddest and most loving days of my life in many ways. I wrote an entire chapter about it in my book, how he moved in with us and we all faced death together.

His last 24 hours or so were a poignant story in themselves. Friday night we watched the movie, “Avalon,” which takes place and was filmed in Baltimore, my dad’s childhood home. He enjoyed pointing out real places he recognized. The next day my aunt, his sister, came to visit. They talked about the movie. And when I say “talked,” what I mean is my aunt asked how was the movie and my dad said, “Okay.” That is what is considered a conversation in my father’s family. People of few words. After my aunt’s visit, Dad was tired and got into bed. While he wasn’t exactly sleeping, he wasn’t fully awake. I sat by the side of the bed, keeping him company. My husband and my three daughters (6, 8 and 10 at the time) came into the room from time to time. I held his hand. He said “I’m worried.”

That was shocking as my father had never expressed worry before. Hearing that was almost more upsetting than knowing he was dying.

“What are you worried about, Dad?” I asked.

“I’m worried about moving to Philadelphia.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I assured him. “Everything works out great for all of us.” I knew this because that move had taken place 40 years ago and everything is still just fine. I found it fascinating, but not surprising, that in the fleeting moments of life the biggest events pass through your mind. It was a big deal when the factory my dad worked in moved to another state and he had to uproot our family to keep his job. While I never heard him voice that worry or any other (remember, he was a man of very few words), I guess it weighed heavily on him.  Taking good care of his family was his reason for living and he did it masterfully. As he was dying his family was still his #1 priority. What a guy.

Next he said, “It’s a big job.” Didn’t say what he meant. I could only guess. Was it dying? Yes, that is a big job.

At one point, he sat up and appearing to be fully awake he called out, “Why can’t they teach others what they know?”

“Who, Dad?”

But I don’t know to whom or about whom he was speaking because those were also his last words. Soon after that I left the room to make coffee. I was out of the room for only five minutes or less when my 8-year-old daughter came into the kitchen and said, “Grandpop is very quiet.” Yes, he was, and also very peaceful, something he had not been during the previous 7 weeks of struggling to breathe. My husband and I knew what this serenity meant. We walked back into the room to kiss him goodbye and bid him farewell.

My dad was not known for being profound. He never asked “Why” about anything.  That question, “Why can’t they teach others what they know?”  was not something my father would ever have asked. He took life as it presented itself to him every day. He didn’t look into the deeper meaning of anything. He could’ve coined the phrase, “It is what it is.” Why this deep, probing question in his last moments? My theory is that he was speaking to someone only he could see with some knowledge that came to him just before death. I like to think he was conversing with friends or loved ones who had died before him who just told him about great things ahead for the dead and he wanted to know why they couldn’t just tell that to everyone.  Am I right, wrong, crazy? Maybe. We’ll never know, will we?

The day your parent dies is one of the hardest days you’ll survive. But it can be beautiful. Sad doesn’t have to mean lacking in beauty. That’s what I learned on the day my father died. I feel differently about death since that day. I believe my father saw something on the mysterious path ahead that appeared beautiful. Like he had done my whole life, he tried as best he could to teach me to ease my way and to leave me a guidepost.

P1020788

Have you learned anything from experiencing the death of a loved one?

Advertisements

18 thoughts on “The Day A Father Dies: A Love Story

  1. This is so powerful and profound. Thank you for sharing. I experienced my grandmother’s death where she reported seeing her sisters and other family who had passed. At one time, she pointed to the corner of the room and said, “oh look at that beautiful angel!” I learned a lot from her last few days on earth.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. “That beautiful angel.” Lovely. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were exactly the way it goes for all of us? And isn’t it awesome how much we can all learn from someone else’s passing? I guess that’s the way it should be — part of a legacy. Thanks for sharing your story. I think reading these really does help others cope.

      Liked by 2 people

  2. Very touching Deb. I remember reading about your dad’s passing in your book. I know my world was shattered when my dad died much too young. It’s a different feeling of devastation for each individual, as we all have our own personal memories, moments, and possibly hurts we have to reconcile ourselves with. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I lost both of my parents while in my 20’s. There was much conflict in my family so I didn’t have closure. One of my parents was the victim of a homicide. I’ve learned that the survivors never fully
    recover from the loss of a loved one who dies violently at the hand of another.

    Like

    1. That’s so awful for you to have lost so much in such a short time and in such a horrific way. I’m not sure about recovery, though. To believe there is something from which you can NEVER recover is to give too much of your power away to things out of your control. Maybe it’s about how you define recover. Will you forget something like that? Never. Will you remain unchanged by it? No. But, can you move forward, albeit not the same person you were before, but move forward and move on to have a fulfilling life? I have to hope so. I hope for your sake that if recovery is beyond reach you find a way to redefine recovery. Maybe work toward renewal and revitalization.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I think that what I mean by “never recover” is that a homicide forever alters your life. I don’t mean that I can’t get on…or stop grieving. But I can never pretend that the evil in this world can not touch me.

        Like

  4. I see and I understand. I guess that’s true for all of us, we can’t keep evil at bay. But I guess it’s also true that when it has already brushed you, you lose one protected layer.

    Like

Love to hear your thoughts! Comment here...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s