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The end of the line
16 September 2005
I got the call Tuesday morning, just before noon. My father passed away. It's taken this time to be able to write those words without getting caught up in the grief of it. It still catches me in the throat when I speak of it.
Susan and I last saw him Sunday. I knew then we would never see him again. My brother, who stopped by every day, usually twice a day, told me Dad wasn't responsive at all when he was there, Tuesday morning. A few hours later, he got the call.
My attitude about death is pragmatic, but it still doesn't lessen the pain. My father went to his death calmly, an atheist free of any superstitous fear or hope for an afterlife. But that still doesn't stop me wishing he could have carried on in some form beyond the body. Yes, it was a relief to have the suffering end, but that doesn't make me any less sorrowful.
There's so much unsaid between fathers and sons, at least in my generation. I tried at the end to say some of it, to tell him what he meant to me. But it made him uncomfortable. Hard to change a lifetime habit of holding one's emotions in check. He understood, I think, but didn't want to make a fuss over it.
An unselfish man even unto the end, Dad's thoughts were on others. He fretted over the difficulties his long dying was causing others, over the inconveniences he caused them. And a proud, private man, he didn't like to be seen in such a vulnerable state, helpless and growing increasingly unable to even take care of the necessities himself. He wanted to be remembered otherwise.
And we will, of course, remember him for his strengths, not that last moment of weakness. For those things he gave us, passed on to us, for his company, his laughter and his quiet wisdom.
As the black sheep of the family, for many years anyway, I didn't share in as much of his company and guidance as I now wish I had. But what rebellious youth ever thinks he or she will need parents, or miss them, or can't do without them? I learned better later, of course, as a calmer, more intrspective adult, but by then patterns were established and the intimacy and warmth were muted, controlled.
There was a stilted formality about our relationship at times, like we were more distantly related - uncle and nephew, perhaps. We chatted easily, but usually superficially, about books, movies, current events, weather - never diving into life's deeper issues, or arguing over personal beliefs. I never turned to him for help or guidance, prefering to struggle with my problems on my own. Maybe that built walls between us, too.
And that's my own fault: I set the stage for it in my youth. You don't always realize the consequences of your actions when you're young. It's harder to dismantle those walls when you're older, and so accustomed to them you don't know how to live without the barriers.
I miss him, wish I could have said everything that was left unsaid, wish we could have had a few long, rambling conversations about all those things we never quiet got around to talking about. I wish I could have really told him how much I respected and loved him, how much he meant and how he was a model for me in so many important ways, how much he gave me that I still carry - not merely those sparse last words in a hospital room while he waited to die.
Susan and I last saw him Sunday. I knew then we would never see him again. My brother, who stopped by every day, usually twice a day, told me Dad wasn't responsive at all when he was there, Tuesday morning. A few hours later, he got the call.
My attitude about death is pragmatic, but it still doesn't lessen the pain. My father went to his death calmly, an atheist free of any superstitous fear or hope for an afterlife. But that still doesn't stop me wishing he could have carried on in some form beyond the body. Yes, it was a relief to have the suffering end, but that doesn't make me any less sorrowful.
There's so much unsaid between fathers and sons, at least in my generation. I tried at the end to say some of it, to tell him what he meant to me. But it made him uncomfortable. Hard to change a lifetime habit of holding one's emotions in check. He understood, I think, but didn't want to make a fuss over it.
An unselfish man even unto the end, Dad's thoughts were on others. He fretted over the difficulties his long dying was causing others, over the inconveniences he caused them. And a proud, private man, he didn't like to be seen in such a vulnerable state, helpless and growing increasingly unable to even take care of the necessities himself. He wanted to be remembered otherwise.
And we will, of course, remember him for his strengths, not that last moment of weakness. For those things he gave us, passed on to us, for his company, his laughter and his quiet wisdom.
As the black sheep of the family, for many years anyway, I didn't share in as much of his company and guidance as I now wish I had. But what rebellious youth ever thinks he or she will need parents, or miss them, or can't do without them? I learned better later, of course, as a calmer, more intrspective adult, but by then patterns were established and the intimacy and warmth were muted, controlled.
There was a stilted formality about our relationship at times, like we were more distantly related - uncle and nephew, perhaps. We chatted easily, but usually superficially, about books, movies, current events, weather - never diving into life's deeper issues, or arguing over personal beliefs. I never turned to him for help or guidance, prefering to struggle with my problems on my own. Maybe that built walls between us, too.
And that's my own fault: I set the stage for it in my youth. You don't always realize the consequences of your actions when you're young. It's harder to dismantle those walls when you're older, and so accustomed to them you don't know how to live without the barriers.
I miss him, wish I could have said everything that was left unsaid, wish we could have had a few long, rambling conversations about all those things we never quiet got around to talking about. I wish I could have really told him how much I respected and loved him, how much he meant and how he was a model for me in so many important ways, how much he gave me that I still carry - not merely those sparse last words in a hospital room while he waited to die.
