Remembering My Dad

Today is my Dad's birthday. He would have been 82 years old. He passed away 5 years ago due to complications from the treatments he was receiving for lung cancer.

My Dad had been a smoker much of my life. He beat it for a while, but after several years began sneaking the cigarettes again. In February of 2003 he was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer - the most deadly and rapidly spreading kind. The doctors gave him the option of just treating his pain, or trying to beat the cancer. Either way, they were pretty sure he was terminal. We were all together at the hospital that day. It was probably the first time in 10 years we were all in the same room together - Mom, Dad, and all five kids. My Dad looked around at us, and didn't hesitate. He just said, "Let's do it! Let's try to beat this."

At first I thought he was in denial. But then I watched his actions. When packing up from their winter Florida home to return to Rochester NY for the treatments to begin, he insisted on walking to the rental office. When we asked him why, he said, "To Say Goodbye". There was something in the way he said it that told me it was to say a final goodbye. He knew he would never be back.

He made a list of things he wanted to do. Simple things. Places he wanted to go one more time. People he wanted to see. He was facing the end with grace and honor as he had his entire life.

At the airport we all flew off in our various directions home. One brother and one sister to southern California, another brother and sister to Rochester with my folks, me back to Suffern. Expecting the Doctor's prediction of 6 months we were all gearing up. Who could take a leave of absence from work first? How were we going to tag-team so Mom and Dad had our support?

But I sat in the airport after everyone else had left and wrote the eulogy I would find myself delivering much too soon.

A couple of weeks into Dad's treatment we were still debating how to make it all work, and I was on my way home from a conference I had attended in California. While waiting for a delayed connection, I received a call from my husband. He had driven to Rochester to meet me there. The plan was to spend the weekend in Rochester with my folks and try to make some plans for the coming months and then to drive home to Suffern. But everything changed with that call. My father had spiked a fever and was hallucinating and semi-responsive. They were calling an ambulance. They would send someone to get me at the airport when I landed.

That was the longest flight of my life. I remember thinking some angel had been watching me because someone had left the book The Love Letter in the seat pocket and it was the only thing that got me through that flight.

In the emergency room, my father apologized to me. He had been looking forward to the weekend, to seeing us, and he was sorry we were inconvenienced to be in the hospital. That was my Dad. He always wanted the best for all his kids.

To test him and keep him alert, we asked him, "What do you think Dad?" and he kept answering, "Save your Money" and making us all laugh through our tears.

The doctors took us to a private room to tell us they could do nothing for him but make him comfortable. His immune system was wiped out by the chemotherapy and the infection was ravaging his body. They didn't think he would last 24 hours. We called my sister and brother in California and told them the news. We called relatives and encouraged them to come and say good-bye. We tried to find moments of lucidity in my Dad's last hours to tell him we loved him and it was okay for him to go.

Then we waited.

We took turns sitting by his bedside. At one point my husband leaned over and kissed my Dad's forehead and told him, "You've always been my hero." In the wee hours of the morning, while others were sleeping in the waiting room, I was there holding his hand while my husband stood nearby. Then something changed.

None of the monitors registered a difference, but there was something new in his aspect. I told my husband to go down the hall and wake everyone. I asked the nurse to come into the room. As I watched, I still couldn't pinpoint it, but something was happening. Quietly, I said, "Dad?" and watched as a single tear streamed down his cheek. I squeezed his hand and he was gone.

One week later I delivered a eulogy at my father's memorial service. There were bagpipes playing Amazing Grace (he would have loved that) and despite an extreme ice storm that had surprised upstate NY that week, over 100 people came to pay their respects.

Because my Dad? he touched people. He lived a simple life. But in its simplicity was its power.

Happy Birthday Pop. I miss you every day.