Death of a Dad

My father passed away on Jan 7, 2024 about 3 in the morning. I wasn't there. I had intended to spend his final moments with him, but death played a trick on us. We had been sliding with rapidity towards the end, but it all came sooner than predicted. I immediately got out of bed and drove to see him and be there for the funeral home. There was a sense of surrealness about his passing. I had been with him the previous day for some time - but I knew something was horribly wrong. He was trying to eat his oatmeal and he was struggling. I fed him a few bites and he fell asleep mid-bite. Once I made sure he had no food in his mouth, I tucked him in and went out to report his condition to the nurse. He couldn't speak. 

I've talked before about the complex relationship we shared. Though terribly sad for both he and my half-brother, his wife died five years previously. Soon after, my sister and I saw that he could not stay in his house and needed to move. We talked him into moving to our town (where he grew up) and into an independent living facility. After grousing for some little time, he began to love it there. He was the "Homecoming King," participated in a lot of activities, and flirted with all the women. Just the way he liked it. He always thought he was a charmer, and to those not too deeply in the know, he was. He loved to make people laugh. Yet, there was a darkness in him. A bitterness that never left him. An inability to see that the challenges in his life were most often of his own making. Just like it is for all of us.

It was tragic when he transitioned from his independent facility to the skilled nursing care.  He couldn't do what he wanted when he wanted. He hated the food. He went to all his rehab appointments down the hall and then did none of his part of the rehab job between appointments. He wanted out so badly, but he was the one who controlled his outcome and he just didn't do it. Finally, he became one with watching TV 18 hours a day. That was his sole activity. He had no strength left to stand or walk or bathe himself. He started to like the same, vile food. Slowly, whatever shred of dignity and self-determination he had went. And, he no longer cared.

There was one shining light in this horrible, awful outcome for my dad. He got right with all of his children. That was no mean feat. We all felt we were given the time with him we needed to ask the right questions, strip the armour from our hearts, gain the insight we needed to forgive, accept, and at last understand the core of who he was and how his own emotional pain drove so much of his life. 

So much of the past few years of my life were wrapped in dad things, I was at a loss for a while in what to do. Thankfully, I had estate things to manage that took some time. Then, there was nothing left to do. 

I think of him more often than I thought I would.

He Looked Down Upon Me and Laughed

In the little town of Vinton, Iowa, just down the road a spell from the big state mental hospital, and home to of the best popcorn fields in the world, there sat a little tarpaper shack, where the weeds grew unchecked between the cracks of the neglected tar and gravel street, down near the railroad tracks.

The house sat right up against the street, with two lop-sided, rotting wooden stairs leading to the front door. The yard was huge and full of all types of Iowa wildflowers and a large, meticulously tended vegetable garden. In the back was an old outhouse that eventually became the garden shed. The entire house was probably 700 square feet. The floors sloped and waved and jutted from 70 years of settling and warping. The bare floor was sprinkled liberally with simple hand-made throw rugs to keep the chill of an Iowa winter at bay.

The house had that aged, musty smell yet was invariably spotless. Long-faded wallpaper with patterns out-of-date by the 1920s covered each wall. The kitchen was the largest of the rooms and obviously the most used. Under the simple kitchen table was a small rope with a knot in the end that served as the handle to lift up the cellar door. Once open, stairs led perilously down several rickety stairs to the tiny, pungent, dank, dark, dirt room where the year’s food supply, culled from the bountiful garden, were stored.

The living room was small—with a coal burning stove eventually replaced by an electric heating stove. A short couch lined one wall, and directly in front of the couch; facing the same direction as the couch, sat the one comfortable chair in which a woman sat for much of her day watching the small black & white television at the other end of the room. Hanging above the television, a small, lonely picture of Jesus looked down upon the room, surveying the every thought, word, and deed of generations.

The woman, who lived to somewhere between 99 and 101 years old, depending on who you took as authority on such things, was tall and lean. Her dress was always immaculately ironed. Her hair was white as pure driven snow, and was always covered by a hairnet. When she spoke, her voice warbled and rasped from too many years of use. Age and gravity had some interesting repercussions. Her face was very, very long, reminding me of a tired old Bloodhound with wrinkles on top of wrinkles. Her earlobes had somehow managed to extend nearly to her shoulders, and her breasts, well, she was never one to bother with such frills as a bra…she was old, let’s leave it at that. Whenever I saw her, a particular Girl Scout song would pop into my head, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you time them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow, can you throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier, do your ears hang low?”

As a child, I paid little heed to her, and as my conversation wasn’t very interesting to her, we never made a connection. I probably spoke a total of 10 words to her my entire life. She visited freely with her son and grandson (my grandfather and father), but my sister and I were left to our own devices playing on most visits at the back of the house in the tiny closet-sized bedroom, with an ancient erector set and tinker toys. All I really knew is she spent over 65 years a widow, raising her kids the hardscrabble way, but most of it was spent alone in that little house, taking care of her business.

Our last visit came when I was about 20, on leave from Germany. Her hearing was nearly shot and her eyesight failing. My father pulled up a straight chair to be near her. She sat in her chair, facing the same direction we faced sitting on the couch behind her—which was always so odd to me—looking at the back of her head. My senses dulled as I listened vaguely to them speaking. Finally, out of the blue, she said, “Lori, where are you?” I snapped out of the daydream state I invariably slipped into, thinking, “Wow, she is actually speaking to me.”

I reached forward and gently and lovingly placed my hand on her arm, feeling suddenly quite warm and sentimental, sure she was asking because she could neither hear nor see me from her current vantage point, and said, “I’m right here Great Grandma.” Perhaps at last, we'd make a connection!  And, then she sighed heavily, and I swore I heard Jesus laughing as he looked down upon me.  She said, “No GOD DAMN IT, where are you in Germany? Larry, what is wrong with the girl?”

Copyright,  2008