My father died about two weeks after my last post. I've mourned his loss a lot, but I haven't been as lost in grief as I was when my mother died. It's the greatest testament to my father that I'm able to offer.
When I was 18, my father had a major heart attack. There was a history of heart problems in his family and although he survived the attack, it was clear that his heart wasn't in good condition. My parents decided they'd work until I graduated from college and retire immediately after. In defiance of all our plans, my mom was diagnosed with cancer shortly after I graduated. A few months after that, she was gone.
Up til then my parents played very traditional family roles. My mother was the child-rearer and dad was the distant bread-winner. I remember him playing pranks and teaching us card tricks, but I can't ever recall him reprimanding me for any of my various misconducts. There were no heart-to-heart talks about boys or life goals. I do remember eating boiled hot dogs whenever my mother was gone and he was in charge of supper.
After my mom passed my dad had to learn to cook. During his "single years" when we'd come to visit, he'd bustle around the kitchen checking boiling stews and washing potatoes during breaks from our card game. I remembering smothering a few grins as he'd proudly bring a casserole or meatloaf to the dinner table.
Dad lived almost 30 years after his first heart attack. For at least half of those years, doctors warned us grimly that his heart was in dire condition and he could go at any time. With that in mind, my father lived and loved well. Every day was a tremendous gift to celebrate, and my father did so.
Eventually he remarried and became a grandfather not only to my children, but the children of his 6 step-children. Dad was so proud of all his kids and with his large extended family, there was a lot of news to share when we talked each week. I sometimes pondered the irony of our extended phone conversations in comparison to our brief exchanges when I lived in his home.
My father became extremely involved in the lives of all his grandchildren. He loved the story about the missing vase I found in pieces, hidden in the sunroom. He laughed heartily at the strange charges that appeared on our phone bill when my toddler starting playing 'telephone.' He drove four hours to attend the ceremony when my daughter won a contest. He was so proud when my oldest graduated from high school.
Finally this year, dad's heart gave out. Months later, I still find myself reaching for the phone to call him. At the same time my kids still have music lessons, carpools, and confirmation classes to attend. Meals still have to be cooked and work still has to be done. In Dad's eyes, these daily trials were the golden years of life and he made it clear that we should enjoy these tasks - not resent them as we go about grieving. Whether we have one year left or 30, life is too short.
Dad, I'm doing my best. Even as your opinions make it easier, they make me miss you more. Each day IS a treasure, and that outlook is the greatest lesson you taught me. I love you.
