On Tuesday February 25 I woke up to
several text messages on my phone, which had been on silent mode overnight – my
store has been instructed to call my landline after 10:00PM – one was from my
brother Michael, which was unusual because we almost never call each other to
chat, the other from my sister Patty. Both messages informed me that my father
had experienced a stroke and was in the hospital. I was scheduled work go to
work at 3:00PM, so I had plenty of time to digest this information and call my
siblings. When I reached them they both told me, in no uncertain terms, that I
should “come home”…now. Considering that this particular brother and this
particular sister never agree on anything, I did not consider any other course
of action other than going to New York.
After several hours of dealing with
a series of un-empowered morons I booked my flight for the following morning. I
arrived at the hospital at about 5:00PM Wednesday in a rental car after
depleting my cell phone battery using the GPS directions function. All of my
siblings, and eventually all but one of my father’s nieces and nephews and most
of his grandchildren were on site. Dad was opening his eyes and appeared to be
somewhat responsive to our presence, at one point meticulously rearranging his
hair that one of us had absent-mindedly mussed up. At one point, as I sat at
his side holding his hand and silently looking at him, he turned toward me and
opened his eyes wide in what I interpreted as a sign of recognition. We all had
those little moments. He seemed to be improving and we all held on to that
little bit of hope.
On Thursday morning our hopes were
proved to be wishful thinking.
It was soon evident that Dad would
never fully recover, and any hope of even a partial recovery was at best a long
shot. Conversations ensued and Mom informed the medical staff that Dad’s
wishes, outlined in his living will, would be honored; no heroic measures. By
Friday night Dad was transferred from Intensive Care to Hospice where we all
gathered around be with him until the end.
Anyone who knew Dad knew that he
had a crazy sense of humor, and was the source and subject of numerous
hilarious stories. What I did not realize was the shear overwhelming number of
funny incidents that he was a part of. We told stories for days, with hardly
any repetition. There were many that I had never heard before, like when he was
dozing on the subway on his way home from work and two thugs stole the hat
right off his head. He was so angry, but everyone laughed about it, which made
him madder! Or his set of “tools” that might have been brought over from
Ireland in the 1800’s that Michael and my brother-in-law Scott jokingly argued
about.
On Saturday night March 1st,
after several of us went to watch my niece Bridy win a talent competition at
her school, we gathered in his room, telling more stories, playing Bridy’s
winning song and Dixieland music on Pandora. Eventually everyone headed home, I
decided to stay behind, since I had not had an opportunity to be alone with him
since I had arrived. I pulled up “Making a Snowball” on my cell phone and read
it to him. If you've read it, you know it’s as much a tribute to Dad as it is a
recounting of the waning days of my first marriage. I then talked to him,
assuring him that Mom would be taken care of, and thanking him for all that he
had done for me…for all of us. I encouraged him to let go and accept the ride
to the other side.
Just before 8:00AM the next morning
Dad indeed let go of the physical and embraced the eternal.
For as long as I can remember Dad
was a man on a mission, dedicated to taking care of those whom he loved. Uncle
Tim described him as a dutiful older brother. We all saw how dedicated he was
to taking care of his mother, despite her many provocations, taking her
shopping and calling her every day. He was devoted to Mom and took care of her
in so many ways. He was a loving and protective father to the five of us, and
even as adults he was always there for us. He was a great help at his church,
setting up for mass, which he attended every morning. He was also there for his
grandchildren, babysitting when they were younger. He was diligent about his
finances, and our family never wanted for anything. He is now at rest.
Resting is how I picture him now.
If there is an afterlife, which he surely believed in and I am leaning toward
myself, he is taking advantage of it by simply taking a break. Sitting on the
back porch of The Summerland of Irish myth with a Scotch or a beer or a cup of
coffee looking out on us all; content in the knowledge that we’re all fine, and
that we’ll be fine in large part due
to what he instilled in us.
