My dad died peacefully last week. I miss him terribly. His death, and indeed his entire life, is a powerful testament to the Words for the Weary spirit of “lighthearted stories about everyday things”.
Two weeks ago we arrived at his home to find him in an armchair. He was connected to oxygen and wearing slippers shaped like hamburgers. He cheerily engaged with everyone while consuming vast amounts of ice cream. His faith and humor and grace remained intact despite the cancer. This was no stoic façade: it’s how dad was hardwired from a lifetime of love.
On one occasion during the ensuing days, as I reconnected his oxygen, he took a deep breath and said “Ah, oxygen. Great stuff. They should put more of it in the air…”.
After moving to narcotic pain medication he quipped “My first drug trip. So this is what all the fuss was about in the 1970s. I suppose I must be hip now with the younger generation.”
We returned one night from the hospital to find a neighbor’s note: “Tater-tot hot dish in the refrigerator”. I love Midwestern neighbors. And I love tater-tots.
Dad was never strong on administration. His account passwords are kept on little yellow sticky notes that absolutely cover his desk. Each note contains a complex mathematical formula which, when solved, reveals a password. I asked him how I was ever to sort out his affairs. He smiled and suggested that if I took a step back and looked at the sticky notes with the correct perspective, they were artfully arranged in the shape of an iguana. Thanks dad.
We prayed together. When speech left him, we prayed for him. Or we simply held hands and gazed upon one another with such love that words were not required.
His decline was remarkably fast – a week before he died he was playing the piano. His final days and the moments of his death were profound. You could squeegee the love out of the air, it was so saturated with grace and light. He died surrounded by his closest loved ones, utterly at peace with his life and with God.
He was the greatest man I have ever known. He also happened to be my dad. No amount of thanks seems sufficient for such a gift.
[This post is dedicated to my late father. His obituary, written by my sister late one night in just a few minutes, can be found here]
