A year ago, today, my father left this World and passed on to the next. I remember the night before vividly. I must have felt it in my soul, that he was going to leave me. My three kids and I went to the nursing home that Saturday morning to say our good-byes. I was going to go back and visit him again on Sunday, before leaving to go back to work in Louisville, Kentucky.
My soul was in turmoil, as I prayed for the timing. Should I go back to Louisville for my last two weeks of work and miss out on two weeks of being with my dad. Or should I stay in Colorado? I needn't have fretted over the details for God, in His sovereignty, took care of it all.
Saturday night, as my kids gathered around our kitchen table, having fun and bantering back and forth, I sat on my bed upstairs, in the arms of my husband, and had a meltdown. I sobbed and sobbed, the culmination of years of grieving and saying good-bye to my father.
It was early the next day, a brilliant, blue-skied Colorado morning, when I woke up, looked at my phone and saw the missed calls from my brother, Eric. I had promised to put my phone on do not disturb Saturday night so his calls would make it through. Somehow, I screwed up, missing that morning's calls. I knew instantly that my dad was gone. I called Eric back, told Ric we needed to go, threw on some clothes and got in the car.
It's funny how survival mode takes over in a crisis. I had been here before: with my brother, Scott, with my ex-husband, John. With my friend, Amy. You do what you must do to get by, then you lose it later on. At least I do.
When I arrived at the nursing home, Eric and my mom were in a different room, giving my mom a break from staring at my father's lifeless body. The three of us, all that remained now of our fragmented, broken family, went together down the hall to the room where my father's lifeless body lay, his soul long departed. I remember looking at it in disbelief, willing myself to admit he was gone. My strong father, who like a cat, had lived nine lives and then some, had finally succumbed to his archenemy, the thing he feared more than anything else. Death. Even he could not elude it again.
I've been teary for a few days, a strong believer in anniversaries and what they mean. I expected to feel this way. I cannot believe it has been a year; it has flown by. Of course, COVID ramped up right after his death, taking a front and center stage in my life as well as everyone else's. So, of course, there was no service for my dad, no finality. Just a cold, rigid body, lying on a cold bed. That is what his life had come to.
Since that day, I've written about my father many times and thought about him as I've been writing my memoir. Bits and pieces come, when I least expect it. Some memories bring smiles, some tears. Not all memories of my father are pleasant. Last week my husband made corn bread for the first time; it was amazingly delicious and one of my favorite things to eat. I grew up with two Southern parents and corn bread was a staple in our household.
Ric had made fish stew as well. He crumbled his cornbread up and mixed it in with his stew. He said it tasted great. I said I was more of a purist; I didn't like my cornbread mixed into anything. I enjoyed it all by itself. Then I had a vision of my dad; one of his favorite things was to mix his cornbread with milk and eat it with a spoon. I shared this with Ric, and it made both of us smile. My dad loved food, loved life, and clung to it with all that he had. He turned every eating occasion an experience.
When I was just a child, I remember going to the gas station. Dad would buy the Coke that came in bottles back then and small packages of peanuts. We all thought it was a treat to empty our peanuts into ice-cold coke and drink, following dad's lead. The combination of salt and sweet was irresistible. Dad made eating an adventure. Even up to the end, he could not resist a can of Coke. It was his drink of choice.
In my spare time, I participate in focus groups and marketing tests where I get paid to give opinions and taste products. Today a 2-liter bottle of Coke appeared in a box on our front porch. The irony of it didn't hit me, quite honestly, until right now. Ric made a comment about why anyone would need to taste Coke. It's not like it hasn't been around forever.
If my dad were here, he would know the answer to the rhetorical question. And even though he's not, God has a way of doing these kinds of things, at least in my life, to remind me I am not alone, He is here, and He knows just how very much I miss my dad, how I need reminders of the good in him from time to time. It takes the sting out of going through life without him.
A few weeks ago, I was looking for some of my old writings when I came across a book of poems my dad had written. Most of them seemed to be from before he married my mom, several speaking of his longing to be with her. I didn't know my dad was a writer, though he had a way with words. In addition to that, he was a teacher/trainer when he worked for the FAA and Martin Marietta. The parallels in our lives is undeniable as I love to write, and I love to teach. I got so many wonderful qualities from him.
The sadness I feel regarding the loss of my father will never truly go away. I know and accept that fact. But I also realize that, the more I focus on the goodness of his well-lived life, the more I can rejoice in the time I had with him and, hopefully, not take for granted the time I have with other people I love.
Oh, may we all remember life is fleeting and do the same!