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There isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just say it:
Dad is dying.
Of course, this isn't a great surprise. He's 93-years-old
and has Alzheimer's (or is it dementia? I'm still a little
uncertain).
I've written his obituary three times during the past three
years.
Each time we think something is going to take him from us ??“
pneumonia, diabetes or a fellow care center resident with a
surprisingly effective right hook ??“ he rallies. If Dad were
the Titanic, he would have taken on water after he hit that
iceberg, but, somehow, he still would have managed to limp
into port. Smiling sweetly, knot by waterlogged knot.
This time, however, the iceberg is going to win. Experts at
the care center report that they've seen this scenario
before, and the outcome is always the same. They give him a
week or so, which should give me just enough time to make
the 700-mile trip to see him and say...What?
What do you say at such a time? "I love you, Dad." Well, of
course.
That's a given. "You've made a profound difference in my
life."
Certainly. "We're all going to miss you." Absolutely. "Thank
you."
Yes ??“ for a thousand different things. Even though I don't
know how much he'll hear or understand, I plan to tell him
all those things and more. But there's one thing I won't say
to him when I see him this Easter weekend.
ESPECIALLY on Easter weekend. I won't tell him "goodbye."
Sure, I understand that I won't see him again after this
visit. And I'm aware of what a wonderful opportunity this
is, relatively speaking. So often death comes suddenly,
without any warning or time to prepare. How many people
would give anything for the chance to say a final "goodbye"
to a loved one?
Believe me, this is not something I'm considering lightly.
It's literally a matter of life and death ??“ I know that. But
if there's anything that being raised, loved, nurtured and
instructed by this good man has taught me, it's this: life
goes on.
And not just in the Lennon-McCarthy "oblahdee-oblahdah"
sense, although Dad was a big believer in the Doctrine of
Moving On. It's what saw him through a promising athletic
career that was thwarted by the Great Depression, and
through two years of separation from his wife and five
children during World War II, and through decades of
business disappointments, financial struggles and family
frustrations. His positive, forward- looking nature wouldn't
allow him to dwell on past pains and failures. He was all
about the next opportunity, the next big challenge, the next
great adventure.
But more than just moving on with mortality, Dad believed
that, because of great and wondrous events that occurred on
the first Easter some 2,000 years ago, life truly does go
on, that death is not an end, and that families are forever.
These beliefs ??“ deeply held and intimately cherished ??“
brought meaning and purpose to his life, just as they bring
faith, hope, confidence and security to his death.
And that's why I won't say a final "goodbye" to Dad when I
leave him this weekend. It would be inappropriate because
neither he nor I believe that it IS a final "goodbye."
Instead, I'll probably just say the same thing I always say
when I leave him: "I'll see you later, Dad."
Because I will. I know I will. Especially at Easter.
--Joseph Walker? ? ?
valuespeak @ msn.com
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To read archived stories, click on this link:?
http://archives.zinester.com/9516/2004?
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Blessings to you today
Bob Johnston
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