Dad

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 1^st, 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.