My mom fell ill with stomach flu the day of my dad’s wake and couldn’t go. That was hard on all of us, but especially for her. I resisted well-meaning calls to convince her otherwise because, as I told my family, “I don’t want to have to do this again anytime soon.” Luckily, Mom was well enough to go to the funeral service but, since she was very weak, had to go back to the nursing home soon afterwards. The funeral parlor, however, was wonderful and offered to hold dad until mom was well enough to see him and say farewell. So, on Sunday, I picked her up and took her there.
When we walked into the viewing room, everything was exactly like it was the day of the viewing. All the picture collages, the photo montage playing on a screen, the flowers, prayer cards, guest book, the model of the Porsche 911 he loved, the copies of the book he wrote long ago, and all the other knickknacks from his life we’d displayed. Of course, my father was there as well, looking none the worse for wear in his grey suit.
Dad died on a Wednesday but, because the funeral home had other “customers,” the wake had to be held a week later and the service the next day. That was a blessing in one sense because it gave us plenty of time to prepare. The delay also helped because I couldn’t cope with going down to my father’s house in Pennsylvania to retrieve a suit for my father. Thankfully, my wife and sister in law were kind enough to do it for me. The lengthy pause also allowed us to make the notifications, write the obit, plan the service, and book the repast at a slower pace than if we had to get it all done lickety-split. That was a mercy.
On Sunday, however, I woke up with a gnawing feeling in my chest. When I put Dad into the hearse after the funeral, my goodbyes had been said and, truth be told, I wasn’t exactly up to see him again. I wanted it all to be over. But my mom needed to do this so, I sucked it up, showered, shaved, put on slacks, a nice shirt, blazer, shined shoes, and picked her up, happy to see she was looking much better.
“Does he look okay?” my mom asked as we drove to the funeral home.
“He looks good,” I said, “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m nervous.”
“I understand. But trust me, he looks better than the day he died.”
Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease back in 2013. Not being one to bitch and moan, he handled his illness with an equanimity that escaped me during my cancer ordeal in 2021. For several years the disease progression was slow, and my folks kept living their lives as though not much had changed – driving, going on trips, etc. Then, right after my surgery, things took a turn for the worse. I had to take the car keys away, get an aide into their home and then, when they were unable to care for themselves, my brother and I placed them in a nursing facility. For the first five months things went well but then Dad was struck down by illness after illness and soon confined to a wheelchair as his Parkinson’s accelerated. While he could remember family members and details from long ago, he couldn’t recall what he had for lunch the hour before. Then after another round of hospitalizations in December and January, I knew the end was coming.
Being a take charge kind of guy, I preplanned Dad’s funeral, wrote his eulogy, and started figuring out to take care of all the paperwork death requires in advance. But, when I visited him in the home, I felt conflicted about doing those things while he was still alive. When you know someone is dying, you start grieving ahead of time and, while that can be self-protective, it still sucks. I felt I was giving up on him, diminishing his presence somehow. But then again, his dementia and death struggle also did that for me. So, when he finally breathed his last while my family held vigil, I was relieved as much for myself as for him. “Thank God that’s over,” I thought to myself.
Oddly enough, after he died, Dad’s presence came roaring back. When I drove past the funeral home near my office in the intervening week, that freaked me out – knowing he was “in there.” Having been in the mental health business for a while, I knew what I was having could be classified as an “intrusive thought” – but I reframed it by thinking back to when I was a child in the 70’s, recalling the warm secure feeling I had lying in the backseat of the car while Phil Rizzuto did the Yankee play by play as Dad drove me home. Thinking about it that way, my father’s physical nearness turned into a comfort instead of a poltergeist.
But grief would not be denied. I cried in the shower, the car, and almost lost it when I took my daughter to her roller skating lessons. My father had only seen Natalie skate on video but, as she did her figures and jumps, I could almost see my him standing by the rink, beaming proudly. In a very real sense, my father seemed more present dead than during his last months alive. Despite choking up, I decided to take that as a win. Then Sunday came.
Watching as my mother wept over Dad’s body, I thought about what an old saint once said, “You will lose everyone you’ve ever loved, or they will lose you.” You can believe in Heaven all you want, but death hurts like a sonvabitch and who those repress it by glossing it over with spiritual jingoism are only kidding themselves. Come to think of it, Jesus wept at funerals too. Then, when my mother regained her composure, I showed her all the pictures and videos, read the condolence book, and then stood by her as she took one last look.
“I’m ready to go,” my mom, said.
“You okay?”
“Yes, I feel better now.”
Guiding my mom towards the door, I cast a look over my shoulder at my father, knowing I’d be the last of his family to ever see him. That seemed right somehow, like a promise had been fulfilled. In that moment any trepidation I felt disappeared – oddly assured that everything had happened as it was supposed to happen. Then we picked up my daughter, took Grandma out to eat and then brought her back to the nursing home.
The next morning, however, I was a bit of a mess. My father’s rites completed; I knew he was being cremated that day. I didn’t know the time and didn’t want to know. While not dwelling on it morbidly, the thought of it still upset me. When the funeral home called to inform it was done later that evening, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“You mother called about where to place your father’s ashes,” the director added.
“That’s a good sign”
“I gave her the number for a cemetery.”
“Okay.”
“How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
“I’m worried about you. You were so strong for you family; but you’ve got to let it out eventually.”
“It’s coming out in drips and drabs, don’t worry.”
In a couple of weeks, after we’ve picked out a spot, we’ll inter my dad’s remains and that will call for another ceremony and prayers. Then, after they set the stone, my long goodbye will be over. But who am I kidding?
I’ll be saying goodbye for a long time.
