At 1:18 a.m., on a cold February Tuesday morning, my father drew his last breath. Up until that point in my life, I had never been with anyone when they died, I had been en route to the hospital when my mother passed away 20 years earlier.
Dad's passing was peaceful and handled well by Kansas City Hospice. Back in that day, hospice care meant that the nurse came to the house twice a week, arranged for the meds, advice and medical equipment you needed and nothing else. The nurse was the one we called to report Dad's passing and we waited for her to arrive from where she lived a few hours away.
Dad lay still in his hospital bed, in his beloved office at his house – right where he wanted to die. Priscilla and I were exhausted. I had only had one hour's sleep – she hadn't slept in over 48 hours and went into overdrive.
While I sat back bemused, Pris started cleaning the house while we waited for the nurse to arrive. It was as if she had stored up several days worth of energy for this one moment of frenzied cleaning.
Our brother was already booked to fly in later that afternoon and would be staying at Dad's.
Nearly two hours after Dad passed away, the nurse got to the house and officially declared our father dead, relying on our report of the time of death. She called the funeral home director who happened to be a close friend of Dad's.
Ken got out of bed in the middle of the night and came himself to tend to his old friend. I had spent the previous few hours with my Dad, unwilling to let go of him while my sister frantically cleaned every inch of the house.
When Ken got to the house, it all hit me. My daddy was gone and not coming back. His body was leaving the house he loved on a stretcher, his face covered by a sheet. I went into hysterics.
Poor Ken was in tears himself – he and Dad had, for years, enjoyed early morning breakfasts downtown. He was taking an old friend to the funeral home and that couldn't have been easy.
I obsessed over Dad's face being covered as if that single act would signal the finality that he was truly dead.
My sister pulled me out of the house and into the garage where I couldn't see anything. I was still in hysterics.
My Daddy was gone. Gone was the man who walked me all over Fredericksburg, Virginia as a baby in the stroller – proudly declaring to all that I was his new daughter. Gone was the man who drove me to the library every Wednesday afternoon as a youngster so we could each check out a book to read – he had cultivated my love of books. Gone was the man I loved to walk with every day as a child and as an adult, my hand tucked into his.
Whenever I whined that my feet hurt, he would say, "Yes, dear. Take your foot off and put it in your pocket." Somehow, what sounded insensitive actually did the trick and my feet stopped hurting.
Gone was the man whose constant humming never annoyed me, but delighted my very soul in the absolute joy HE got out of life.
Gone was the man who had a difficult time hugging and saying he loved you, but who sent me a birthday card on my 40th birthday that simply said, "My baby is turning 40."
Gone was the man who, just the summer before, had grinned so broadly at a sweet waitress in a small town in Missouri, that I realized just how charming he was to everyone.
Gone was the man who could "guffaw" like nobody's business over the silliest things. Who got on all fours, even into his 80s and would chase my sister and I all over the living room snorting at us. What "got us" as kids, still "got us" as adults.
Gone was the man who worshipped the ground my little son walked on. He was the grandpa who now proudly introduced "my grandson Cody" to everyone before he introduced Pris and I. All the photos I have of my Dad and my son from Cody's youth are of my son trailing behind his Grandpa ... from the shed, from their morning walks, in the office, on the porch, in the living room – even as 10-month-old who couldn't walk yet, sitting on the kitchen floor watching his grandpa cook.
Gone was the man who once admitted to me that he fell in love with our mother because he loved her whimsical smile.
Gone was the man who, when I was young, I never thought had a backbone, but proved he did when he stood up for me to an abusive boss I had at 17, and before that, to the neighborhood boys who used to chase me with snakes.
I sobbed and cried that night as they hauled my Dad out of his house, face uncovered at my orders – the stretcher pushed by an old friend, tears running down his own face.
Six days after he passed away, my dad was laid to rest next to my mother – his headstone the same as hers, containing his name, dates, and below them, the simple word – Priest. His utter devotion to God was his final declaration.
Before I knew it, 10 years had passed since I became an orphan. Life did go on. My husband, son and I moved into my sister's home and she moved into Dad's. It was our duty and privilege to look after Priscilla now.
My son handled his grandfather's passing with stoic grace. He weathered years of bullying here in this old Midwestern town. Some of the taunts included heinous accusations made against him and his grandfather because he constantly visited his grandfather's grave. He withstood it all and never wavered in his love and admiration for his grandpa.
My Dad's quiet faith, love and grace changed all of us.
It's now been 11 1/2 years since he left us and in less than two weeks, it will be the 31st anniversary of my mother's passing. It's true that it gets easier to lose a loved one, but thankfully, the memories never go away. They become more rich with time and should never be forgotten.
I can remember my parent's voices. I can hear my mother call my name when she'd get annoyed with me, "Elizabeth Anne!" I can hear my father laughing out loud at something funny, which he often did. He had the best sense of humor in the world. I can hear his humming and the jingle of the change in his pocket as he waited for us all to finish getting ready to go somewhere – he was always early!
In recent years as Facebook as exploded with the rush of social media, I have run into many people who remember my Dad. These tidbits of remembrance have warmed my heart more than anyone could know. One man told me Dad influenced him into becoming a minister. Several others warmly remembered being acolytes for him. Another told me that my father's sermons helped me become a believer in Christ. Still others simply attended our church and remember his voice, his preaching, his kind personality.
When I wrote for a local newspaper several years ago, I had written an opinion piece about my Dad and was contacted by a woman who said my father married her and her husband many years before. She spoke of how gracious he was, especially when their car broke down and they were late to their own wedding.
We all think no one will remember us. We all believe we've not made a difference in someone's life. We all believe we somehow never quite measure up to an ideal we have in our minds.
My father was no different. On his last Father's Day he said, "I'm so sorry I wasn't a good dad."
I was shocked. Not a good Dad? "No," I told my father. "You weren't a good dad – you were the best there ever was and I'm grateful every single day that God blessed me with you." He rewarded me with that dimpled grin of his.
Not a day goes by that I don't grieve a little for my father. I miss my mother, but my strongest bond was always with dad. I never learned that he spent so much time with me as a young child until my sister told me several years ago. He was in his 40s when I was born and older and wiser than he was when my brother and sister were little. He had been a very busy young minister during their youth and he was determined to not miss a moment.
Lately, I've watched many of my classmates going through similar circumstances. Just today, one mentioned that his father recently died and now he had to sell the family home. That thread of conversation led to many others expressing similar sentiments.
It's never easy to lose one's parents (or any other loved one). Our childhoods are usually something very precious to us. I can easily say that mine was as perfect as it gets, despite being bullied. My parents loved me and took great care of me. They taught me right from wrong, to stand up for what was right and against what is wrong. They provided me with wonderful family vacations every year and a strong sense of family. They brought me to my faith in God and love for Christ.
Countless nights were spent around the old TV, watching Disney, I Love Lucy, Laugh-In, Car 54 Where Are You?, The Honeymooners, Carol Burnett, All in the Family, and my mother's favorite, Masterpiece Theater. Most families don't spend that kind of time together anymore.
As we age, I can only pray my own son will remember me with as much fondness as I remember my parents. That he will hear my voice in his head years after I pass on. That he will some day remind his children of the great times he had with his grandfather and who he was.
Our parents are our legacy and we are our children's legacy.
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