Goodbye, Dad

My father died Tuesday July 13th, 2010.

He'd been in a slow decline for about a year, becoming more confused and communicating less and less. Then the last five or six weeks before he died, he stopped drinking any liquids unless Mom made him. She'd been taking care of him at home, helping him dress and bathe, which he'd forgotten how to do. When I'd call, she'd stopped putting him on the phone since he was no longer able to make any sort of conversation-- though I did talk to him on Father's Day, and I believe he had some idea who I was, though it's difficult to say. Anyway, he collapsed at the kitchen table in the early afternoon, and was gone in a few hours.

Mom usually puts up a good front, and she dealt with Dad's death by focusing on all the legal and social tasks that soon followed. In part, I think she felt some relief that Dad's death was relatively quick and painless, and that the stress of caring for him while watching him steadily decline was over. Becky and I went down to see her, Becky the next day and I a few days after. We helped her with some paperwork, looked over 15-year-old drafts of the will and trust documents, and just kept her company. She was generally in good spirits, though once I caught her in silent reverie thinking about Dad. A week and a half later I went down again with Lillian and the kids (a trip we'd already planned) and we stayed with her a few days before leaving for family camp. Mom was generally OK then, too, but teared up and let the loneliness show when we were leaving. I just talked to her again tonight after we got back (no cell phone access at family camp) and she mentioned feeling lonely. Before, taking care of Dad and planning meals gave her a focus and purpose, even though he was no longer real company. Now that he's gone, she finds herself alone with little to do. These few months are going to be difficult for her. I've heard that death rates are higher than normal in the first few months after a spouse's death, and I expect loneliness and depression due to the loss are a big component of that. In this case, since she'd been losing Dad gradually over the year, perhaps the shock won't be as great. Mom's in general good health, both physical and mental, except for her eyesight and a bit of arthritis, so I'm hoping she'll weather this. I will probably go down once or twice more in the fall.

Becky and I are thinking about helping her move up here where it would be easier to visit. Mom's only direct social contact, as far as I can tell, is Susie, a woman who helps her shop once a week. All her other friends she keeps in contact with by phone or email (and email is difficult because of her failing eyesight). So I think having her move up here might work out. But, of course, Becky and I would have persuade Mom to move up here, and arrange things for her. Mom's not keen on assisted living, though I think the chance to talk to more people in person would be good for her. On the other hand, leaving her own home and moving into a small apartment in a new part of the state would be a big loss for Mom. She wouldn't have to cook for herself, which is either a plus or a minus depending on how you look at it. So I really don't know what would be best for her, and I suspect neither does she. Before, when Lillian or I would mention to Mom and Dad the possibility of them moving up here, neither was really willing to entertain the idea. Now Mom is, but keeps putting it off— she just mentioned that she'd have to stay in the house until January because of needing the taxes and paperwork to clear. There's no real necessity to stay there, of course, it's just easier to put off the decision.

And I can relate to that. I knew, and yet didn't really admit to myself, that Dad was dying once Mom told me he had stopped drinking. I was going to go down and see them, but put it off, first for work and then for some things we'd planned for Lillian's birthday. It seemed clear that the clinic they went do wasn't doing anything for Dad— not that I'm sure anything could have been done— but I didn't step in. Just as several years ago it seemed clear that Mom and Dad should move up here, but I didn't really push them to seriously consider the idea— I barely brought up the subject, in fact, Lillian did so more often than I did. Avoiding taking action is something I am unfortunately quite familiar with.

As for my own reactions to Dad's death... well, it's difficult to say. The day he died, when I was aware that he was worsening quickly but before I'd heard the news, I went for a walk after work at lunch. I sat by the creek and thought about growing up in Las Vegas, and knowing him as a kid, and recalled some vivid, happy memories. What strikes me now, though, is how I never really knew him as an adult. I don't remember any extended chats, any discussions of issues of the day, any personal stories. You'd think there must have been some. But our interests and our politics differed, and since my family avoids conflict, that put a lot of topics out of reach. Also, Dad was a rather private person, not inclined to personal reminiscence or revelation, as I suppose many men of his generation and background were. Our talks on the phone, for the last decade or more, were always perfunctory. We'd exchange a few sentences about the weather, and perhaps about some game he'd watched on TV that afternoon, and he'd always thank me for calling and say how much Mom enjoyed my calls. The last several years he'd always ask where I was calling from, or where I was, and I'd remind him where I lived. He'd ask if I could use any help, and I'd say no. That was really the extent of it. Despite being an engineer by profession, he never asked me about my work, or was interested in discussing it when I would raise it as a topic.

And, perhaps the hardest thing for me, is he wasn't interested in Nick or Allie. When they were babies, and children, and even when they were teens, he wouldn't talk with them, or ask about them, or express any interest at all. Since they were so important to me and such a big part of my life, this was difficult for me to come to terms with. He barely talked with me on the phone, let alone them. So I can't imagine what impression they have of their Grandfather. Just as their birth seemed to leave no impression on him, his death has had no impression on them, except as it's affected their Grandma. And, you know, why should it have?

Still, I remember being a kid. Dad was distant, but he tried to have a relationship with me. I remember building and flying model rockets with him. Discussing an estimate in the newspaper that seemed way off base and thinking about it together to come up with a better one. Accompanying him on some of his morning bike rides before work. Learning to drive. The pulley system he came up for raising my model train set up to the ceiling of the porch. Him coming home to eat lunch and swim in the summer during the work week. Him being a moderating influence when Mom would get upset with Becky and me for leaving messes around the house, or not helping with dinner or dishes. Him being proud of me when I did well in school, or when I figured out some mechanical issue, like the gearing necessary to make an Erector set's robot head move. I had a relatively happy childhood, and he was a part of that. My sense of humor owes a bit to his, and my sense of ethics owes a lot to him— he had a very strong and mature ethical sensibility. I'm really indebted to him for that.

So, Dad, goodbye. I wish I'd been a better son to you, maybe we'd have had a better relationship and you'd have kept more of your spirit, had a richer life, in your middle age and retirement. All I can do now, of course, is be a good father to my own children, and do my best to keep my spirit intact and my relationships with them strong. Already I find myself starting to fail to do so... so let me keep vivid my good memories of you, that I might manage to do a bit better.