Whatever the form heaven takes, there was solace in it. There was no way all that grace and personality and well-lived life can disappear into nowhere.
I loved my dad, very much. And as much of a cliché that this might sound, I can’t overstate it: it would be really difficult for anyone not to like being around my dad. He was kind and warm and solid without any overdone pride. He was ballast and armor. He could make his opinion known—which wasn’t too often—in the best of ways. He was a real man without needing a sledgehammer.
I can’t think of a single time when his point of view wasn’t in my best interest.
I’d been living with my parents for nearly a year. My de facto caregiving role was something I backed into after what was unraveling around me: At one end, I needed to escape one very fucked up relationship. On the other, Mary had made an observation from 600 miles away, which sounded like this: "You guys: Mom and Dad need help."
Within six months of me moving into a spare room filled with white wicker furniture and a display case filled with old dolls, Dad had fallen a dozen times. If I was at work 45 minutes away and Mom called me with panic and confusion, I would try to calm her or call 9-1-1, or both, but I’d rush home either way.
I was 51 the first and only time I yelled at my dad. It was a Saturday morning. After getting him dressed, fed, and into his easy chair, I sat for a bowl of shredded wheat and blueberries because . . . well, because I had my own old-man tendencies. With my head down on my breakfast fiber, my dad apparently got to his feet and then tumbled over.
“What are you doing?” I shouted it, a verbal lashing.
He was bunched in a corner below the TV. He smiled up at me like a two-year-old.
You sort of get used to it. With every fall, there would be blood. I’d get excited if I saw self-adhering flex wrap on sale. Nurses complimented me on my handiwork.
If a fall involved a hit to the head, it meant an automatic ride to the E.R.—not necessarily out of concern, but to be compliant with first-responder protocol. Clear rules meant first paramedics wouldn't have to debate World World II veterans.
A crew of five or six emergency professionals from the Tualatin Valley Fire Department would show up so often, Dad started referring to them as “the boys at the station.” What’s funny is that these same group of guys—all built like power forwards—knew they'd been elevated to the top of Dad's call-for-help list. By the time I arrived, they'd be trying to lecture and stern-talk Dad on safety tips, while Dad smiled, nodded, and changed the subject. Dad had a way of making the boys at the station scratch their heads, smile, and laugh. Just like he did for the rest of us.
Being aware of your last months or weeks or days—not knowing yet knowing—has to mess with your head. On one hand—for me, anyway—I’d simply want to go head first. Death, that is. I remember thinking my life ought to be done as soon as I could no longer wipe my own ass. I figured: Smother me with affection—I mean, a pillow. But I also know enough to know that our perspectives change throughout the arc of life. The living has a way of reminding itself that it's always a great time to be alive. The only problem is the prospect of burdening anyone, especially my daughter.
If I haven’t already overstated the obvious, I will now: death never felt more certain than standing over my dad on his death bed.
Meanwhile, my mom—my dad’s wife for 62 years—no longer had the capacity to make new memories. She spent her days looking out the window at a big Douglas fir on the practice tee behind the house. She had a series of go-to phrases she’d say over and over, using their rhetorical quality as a small comfort. From a chair near the space where my dad would eventually lay so still, she’d point to the tree and say—or ask, “Would you look at that tree? It’s really grown, hasn’t it?” Or “I can’t believe how much that tree has grown.” Or both. They’re interchangeable loops of small talk to keep us tethered. There was a child-like quality to her chatter, and we'd learn from it. Over time, we all riffed from a grab bag of favorites in our quest to make our visits with Mom count:
“Time really flies, doesn’t it?
“We can’t really control the weather, can we?”
“I can’t believe it’s already (whatever the month is).”
“What would we do without the rain?”
If all else fails, take her hand and describe how unbelievably soft it is.
If Mom has an episode where, for instance, she's asking when her father—Daddy—was dropping by, there wasn’t much good in explaining that he died in 1955. I would simply say I wasn’t sure, but would you look at how big that tree is getting?
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