The Journey: My father’s last goodbye

My father’s last goodbye

It was a warm afternoon, nearly 40 degrees and sunny – a rarity for an Indiana December. In the alley behind a street of modest 1920s era homes, a skinny 14-year-old shot basket after basket, winning the state tournament with each swish. While he was well-coached in church league basketball, his small size made him better suited for his other two loves, music and writing. But on that rare sunny December, it was all about basketball and more than warm enough for a kid to work up a sweat. So, he headed home to gulp some water. Pounding through the back door, he saw his parents hovered around the family radio. The breaking news that sunny day would change the course of his life. The date: December 7, 1941.

Perhaps sadly, Pearl Harbor Day is passing from our nation’s living memory. Soon, all those who lived it will be gone, and the event will join Gettysburg, San Juan Hill, and Belleau Wood in the more clinically academic memory of history.

Seventy-five years after my father’s sunny afternoon of basketball, I was at work, fully aware that it was Wednesday, but not thinking much about the significance of the date – December 7, 2016. But it was an oddly restless day. Usually, I am over-caffeinated and laser-focused at work. But that day, I had been distracted from the start, worried about dad.

I’ll admit to some frustration as the final years of my father’s life left me feeling like the responsible adult, dealing with a man clinging to his dignity and mental clarity by the thinnest of threads. We’d had a rough relationship in my teen years, and it was only in my late 20s that I called a truce and was reminded how much I loved that often frustrating, endlessly gregarious man.

Dad was near the end of life’s thread. That much he knew. He’d had a running battle with prostate cancer for 20 years. In September, he had a fall at home, which led to the discovery that his cancer had become resistant to treatment and spread to his bones, including his head and spine. He turned 89 that October, and a few weeks later we met with his new oncologist. Dad clearly understood this cancer would be the end of him. He wanted no aggressive and forlorn attempt to cure the incurable. But, the doctor asked him what he wanted from the time that remained. My dad, ever the optimist, said, “I think I’d like to make it to 90.” His doctor said that seemed possible.

While progressively significant pain was coming, the doctor reassured dad that this could be managed. At the moment, dad was stable with only moderate pain managed by medication. While not overjoyed at living in the health center of his retirement community, his congenial side loved making new friends with his caregivers.

I usually visited Dad on the weekends. The only time I showed up on weekdays was to take him to a doctor’s appointment. But that December Wednesday, I couldn’t shake the sense that there was something very wrong. For hours I dismissed it, but could not push it from my mind. So, I left work early and made the 45-minute drive to his retirement community.

I was greeted by my happy, smiling, talkative father, who was a little befuddled at my unannounced weekday visit. I felt relieved and a little foolish for giving in to that nudging voice inside me. So, we visited.

No, dad wasn’t experiencing too much pain.

Yes, the food was good.

With a little help from his caregivers, he was getting music from the Pandora app on the Kindle Fire we’d given him for his birthday. We talked about Antônio Carlos Jobim, Ana Caram, and even a Dixieland Jazz record he had played on in his 20s.

It finally dawned on me that it was December 7th. Most people I know remember exactly where they were the day the twin towers collapsed on September 11, 2001. I asked dad if he remembered where he was on the original Pearl Harbor Day. That’s when he told me about his 14-year-old self, playing basketball in the alley.

After a couple of hours, dad was looking tired. Warmed by our visit, I said goodbye and promised I’d be back soon. As I walked from his room, he called me back. “I just wanted to say I love you,” he said.

I felt a mixture of joy and discomfort. These were hard words for him to say, yet they meant so much. It wasn’t that dad had anything but the fiercest love for his children. But he came from a generation and family that found those words so difficult to speak – especially man-to-man.

As I drove home, I talked with God. I felt foolish that I’d attributed to Him the urgent whisper prompting my mid-week dash to see dad. Dad was just fine, and I was grateful to hear him say to me those extraordinary words of love.

Four days later, on a cloudy December afternoon, I got a call from the health center. Dad had passed during a nap. He had a normal breakfast, followed by the usual good-natured banter with his caregivers. After lunch, he said a Sunday nap sounded good. He went to sleep, Frank Sinatra playing on Pandora, perhaps dreaming of shooting baskets in the alley behind his childhood home.

I miss him. Yet I’m continually warmed by his last words to me.