A few more recollections about my dad...

For the father’s day we knew would be Pop’s last, I was freed from my writer’s block and gifted with a verse to put into his card, which read:

You taught me the difference
Between right and wrong
And how to be kind
And when to be strong

And all the good
That I may do
Is owed to lessons
I learned from you.

Happy Fathers Day, Pop.
I love you.

About his life: Things were always hard for him. He worked hard and felt things deeply and loved his family. He only had one good eye. He was left handed. He did things different. He was different. And he was a very smart man – he invented things. He could fix anything and build anything. He could figure out a way to work around any obstacle that life, or he himself, put in his path – and there were plenty. He could figure out a way to do anything. And it was never, ever, the way the directions said to do it.

His love for Mom was absolute. Mom was the love of his life and he was faithful to her and from him I learned faithfulness. And his love for his children, for his family, was unshakable. I remember a few times as a teenager when I had to call home with those calls you never ever want to make as a teenager, and as a parent I know now you never ever want to hear – and I thank god that I seem to have been spared on this one, knock on wood, and that my children have never had cause to make one of those calls home to me. But his support never wavered. He was always there, he was a rock for me. I have told my children, I could not love them the way I do if Pop had not loved me the way that he did. The way that he does still.

I remember a very big man.

My father died last night -- from the Journal, 7-6-06

My dad died last night. I watched him breathe his last breath. He’d seemed weaker that day, and his good eye was looking far past us. The nurse came, and said she did not know how long it would be, but that patients could survive several weeks after they stopped taking fluids. He seemed restless, at least was not sleeping nearly as much as he had been the days previous, which was a sign, though a vague one, the hospice book mentioned, that the end may be near. More significantly his lungs sounded congested for the first time, the gurgle or death-rattle which I was hearing then for the first time. His grip was still firm holding onto our hands, though I could not believe that the day before he unexpectedly asked me clearly “How’s it goin’” when I said I was there. My father-in-law Del came over from next door to sit with him, and held his hand and wiped at his eyes and admired Dad’s big hands and spoke of Dad’s big heart. His visit honored Pop, and the things he said caused my eyes to burn and my voice to catch in my chest. Del also said that in our family it was his turn next in the order of things and he said it calmly and clearly and I could not deny there would be many more goodbyes not far in our future, each as hard as this one. And Jon and Martha and Nola and Anya came in to stand for a few moments and give their respects, and though little Anya pressed back against her father’s legs and averted her eyes Nola spoke clearly and seriously when she said ‘Hi, Nard, it’s Nola.’ And I had just stopped by when I looked up and saw a priest walking towards the office. It was Fr. Tom from St. Patricks, with a deacon named George who was there for the Last Rites. I was glad to be there, and Mom, Yvonne, Michelle and I went into the room and stood around him and Fr. anointed his forehead and palms (Pop opening up his clenched hands for the priest) and we held hands and prayed and Fr. read a gospel and forgave Dad his sins and though Dad’s milky gaze remained straight up, into the distance, it felt calming, holy, and, I thought, gave Dad comfort. Perhaps even enough to make it easier for him to let go. Mom gave me a small wad of money to give the priest, which I did outside as I walked them to their car.
And we had dinner together, mom and Y and Michelle and Ellen, and at one point I phoned Elsie to tell her that her grandpa was not doing very well. Then back home and to bed earlier than the night before (when I’d mucked about reading the Grateful Dead book until 12:30 and ended up with only 5 hours sleep or so) And at 2:00 in the morning we heard the phone ring and it was mom, calling us thank god in the middle of the night saying Dad did not sound good and it may be time. And we went straight over – a couple of owls were screeching out their cries of portent ready to catch and carry this waiting soul – and Mom was giving Dad oxygen as Yvonne had suggested for his difficulty breathing and his breath was thick and gargly and uneven and we circled round the bed and put our hands on him, and on mom who kept popping up and wanting to do something but we finally persuaded her to sit down and turn off the oxygen which made no difference and we listened to the sweet sound of my father breathing, a sweet sound I will hear no more, and the pauses between breaths grew longer and he gasped a little and gave a couple more quick breaths and then …. there were no more. We waited and watched and the room was very very still except for the soft sounds of mom sobbing. And one by one we kissed his still warm head and we tried to close his open pale distant-staring eyes. And we hugged and I led an Our Father though I somehow ended it with ‘now and at the hour of our death, Amen’ from the Hail Mary but that was all right, and Mom did lead us in a Hail Mary and I sat for awhile longer with my hands on him. And then we gave Mom a Tylenol PM and went home. Yvonne did not sleep more, though she tried for awhile. Neither did Mom, and Michelle slept a little and I slept quite well until 8 AM when I got up and had some thoughtful tea in the beautiful cool morning light, the sun having risen like any other day. And when I got over to the house the van from the mortuary was there and they brought Dad out wrapped in a blanket but paused noticing the aching in our faces and asked if we wanted to see him on last time and pulled down the blanket and I looked for one last time at the beautiful, beautiful face of my father and kissed his now-cool forehead and they wrapped him up and we carried him up the stairs and into the van and he was gone. From my sight.