On November 19, 2021, I joined the collective of people on this planet who have lost a parent.
At exactly 6:40pm (yes, I looked immediately at my phone as accuracy was important to him), surrounded by myself, my Mom, my sister, and his two sons-in-law, my father slipped the surly bonds of Earth, as it were, and reached out to touch the face of God.
(Another hat tip to accuracy - while most would immediately harken back to those words being spoken by President Reagan after the Challenger disaster, they actually come from a sonnet written by John Gillespie Magee, a Royal Canadian Air Force pilot, who died at the age of 19 in 1941.)
I have often reflected on how lucky both Rudy and I have been to have had all four of our parents still living. So many of our friends have buried their parent(s) far too young due to accident, disease, age. I have watched from afar as my grandparents and aunts and uncles have passed. I have been protected by a buffer of distance as friends have lost children, reversing the natural process of them burying us.
But until last week, when every vestige of distance, buffer, and degree of separation was stripped away, did I have any way of truly understanding, fully feeling what the loss of a parent would be like.
In a word - devastating.
In many words...
Like most adult children, I can look back and admit that my relationship with my Dad was complicated, especially as a teenager. Too much alike, too Type A, too bullheaded, too much of a need to win mindset. We clashed. A lot. He was a stereotype of a Dad when it came to me dating - he bristled at the whole idea, so we clashed. A lot. But despite the conflicts, he is also the reason I excelled in school. My push to please him, to meet his high expectations, to grab honors, leads in the school play, straight As - all served me well in the end.
As I moved out and into young adulthood, distance afforded us both breathing room. Plus we were far less likely to clash when we were out of one another's eyeline. Briefly working in his industry (aviation), in the same city where so many knew and respected him extended a veil of "royalty" over me - "Oh, you're Jim's daughter..." It was also a massive pain in the ass because I really wanted to carve out something of my own. But I know he was proud, so I dealt with it.
As I went on to make some questionable life choices that did not pan out, he bristled. Of course he did. As a parent now, I know completely that the most difficult thing to do is watch your child heading towards a brick wall and knowing that you have to let them hit it or they won't learn anything. So I crashed. So I burned. So I learned.
As my life moved forward to include Rudy and then children, I saw the man through new eyes. The titan, the taskmaster, the one we feared was, in the company of my first baby, nothing but mush. With each additional grandchild, he turned from mush to puree. He was, as the joke goes, not the man who raised me. He was a grandfather.
Wait, scratch that. He was an Unclepap. When Culley was born, he protested that he was too young to be called any variation of grandpa. So I jokingly said fine, combined Uncle with pap from what we always called his father - Grandpap - and the moniker that all of the grandchildren know him by was born.
Watching my father with my kids have been some of the purest moments I have known. His love was easy, he was a source of constant fun, he reveled in helping them break my rules, and his visits were akin to the circus coming to town. I finally accepted that I simply needed to get out of the way and clean up the confetti afterwards. My kids have known nothing but laughter, fun, and unconditional love from him their entire lives.
When he first held Culley, he whispered to her that "You're going to be something special." That entire visit, he barely put her down, so firmly enthralled by a ten pound bundle. Watching them was watching the purest of love affairs. She was perfect, she could do no wrong. They were buddies who were inseparable at every visit. As she has grown, so has his pride in her. Not just pride in her work advancements, but as she rebuilt her life from rubble. My father respected and admired strength and fortitude, and she displayed that in boatloads. That she managed to visit this past July and see him before everything began to fall apart so rapidly, was a gift he treasured, one I know she will hold close forever.
Kendall arrived on the scene and they became co-conspirators. Her natural desire to rabble rouse coupled with his sneaky, smartass tendencies made them thick as thieves. Then they discovered Monopoly. She was little, maybe 5 when it all started. And in the beginning, other people were allowed to participate. But as the years moved on, we all began to take a hard pass as their games became grudge matches, they worked made-up songs into their competitions, and their goals became to see how much they could cheat on the other. They were loud, they were funny, and Kendall only ever won ONCE - just a few years ago. His feigned tears were a thing of beauty, especially to her. His pride in her ongoing academics was evident when he received a Harvard shirt for Christmas and he started wearing it, hoping to be asked by someone about its provenance.
And Toby. Born Carson, but with a middle name that has remained unchanged, I still remember calling my father from the delivery room and telling him the middle name was James. You could hear the pride and tears through the phone. When Toby began to transition and the time came to tell my parents, we all feared that the revelation would be too much from a generational standpoint, a religious one, or just in general. As heartbreaking as it was, Toby was prepared to lose him, as I was prepared to lose my parents as well. Toby's tears were sobs when I was finally able to tell him that his grandparents loved him no matter what - something they have proven without a stumble through the years since. Unclepap was inordinately proud of Toby's artistic talent and the strides he has been making as a professional artist. Their lifelong argument was over who was the biggest Turd Bird (the highest level of affection). Toby gifted him with a Turdologist Association card way back, a card my father scratched out and returned to Toby last year. Toby plans on scratching his name out and replacing it with “Unclepap” one last time before placing it in his casket. Game, set, match.
For all our struggles through my teens and early adulting, my Dad and I had finally found each other. For many years, he has been a confidante, my smart ass tag team partner, and my friend. Lest anyone wonder where my sense of humor came from? An Irishman named Jim.
My sister and I found out he had been diagnosed with Parkinson's on his birthday in March 2018. We sat in their hotel suite in Vegas and he and Mom changed our lives forever. Kim and I sat on either side of him, and for one of the very few times I had ever seen, he cried. He was scared, and Dad doesn't do scared. He and I have that in common - we don't do weakness, we abhor it in ourselves, we hate even being perceived as such. Through the years since that day, he and I have been team mates. His early promise to me was that I would make my Mom not hover over him, if he promised me that when the time came, he would ask for help.
That was on a cruise I took with them and their best friends in 2019. His decline had started, but he hated being watched like a hawk, and my Mom is the nest master in that regard. She loves her people and lives to care for them. So after extracting that promise from him, we made a game out of ditching my Mom and running off to the casino together. The decision to go on that cruise was made two days before it sailed, and I will never regret it. I have such wonderful memories of those 15 nights together.
This year has been a pisser. It just has. My sister with breast cancer. Racing against the clock to get my parents into independent living at a care facility here, then helping my Mom as his decline began to quicken. About two months ago, he was having a bad day with all of the symptoms, giving Mom a hard time, etc, and I just held him and reminded him of our pact. I told him I knew in the deepest part of me how hard this was for him because no one was more aware of his decline than he was, and as he and I are so much alike, it would be what bothered me the most.
Watching this slide has been heartbreaking. Not just the visual changes, but watching him diminish in other ways. This is a man who has always been the life of the party, the man with the jokes, the one who could be counted on to find the funny in any situation. The man who lived for a good poop joke. And he was disappearing. Slowly floating away. The move to Memory Care just over three weeks ago was as much for my Mom as it was for him. She could no longer handle everything on her own. And his dementia had picked up dramatic speed.
Yes, I said three weeks. Three weeks ago he walked into Memory Care on his own. And Friday night he took his last breath.
We all spent the entirety of last week by his side. He was never conscious, but he was also not peaceful. His breathing was loud and labored, and as day turned to night turned to day turned to more nights, we stayed, we talked. We told stories. And we laughed. Yes, laughed. Ours is a funny family, and I believe he loved hearing us laugh. We made sure my Mom ate and drank enough. My sister began radiation treatments daily last week, yet as tired as she was, she would come right back.
Throughout the week I sat with him, sat on the bed and cradled him when the nurses' repositioning made space available. I began DJing my father's transition to death, pulling up favorite songs of his on Spotify. I fully believe he could hear. The first song I played was at my Mom's request - their song - Moon River, the Andy Williams version. From the first chords, his face reacted, changed. So we played a lot of music as the week went on. When his breathing would again get out of control, I discovered that talking to him, coaching him, and rubbing his chest would calm him. And as the week went on, we slid into periods where his breathing would become so quiet, and then even stop for 15-30 seconds at a time - at least six times we thought he was gone, and then suddenly he would gasp and breathe again.
Me being me and Dad being Dad, at one point I said to him, "This is the worst fucking April Fool's joke you have ever pulled. Stop it."
Just past midnight on Thursday, Rudy was updating his calendar and said Happy Birthday to my Mom. Yes, her birthday was Thursday. And he stayed. My father, who according to hospice, should not have still been there, chugged on.
Friday continued the cycle of hard breathing. So much labor. Traumatic to watch. I don't use that word lightly. And then around 430pm, my Mom and I were able to get him quieted down and his breathing became much softer. But it was also becoming much shallower.
Kim and Mike returned from her radiation, and by 6pm we knew we were getting close to the finish line with Dad. We all were around him, touching him, talking to him as his breaths were barely entering his lungs, each one shorter and more shallow. And then it struck me.
Grab your clutching pearls. TMI incoming...
I do not "go" in the evening. I do not necessarily "go" everyday. Yet there I was, hand on my father's chest, and I was about to fill my own pants. I looked at my sister and said, "I cannot believe this." I leaned over Dad and said, "Don't go anywhere" and ran to his bathroom. I have never gone so fast in my life. I ran back out, said to him, "Sorry about that, thank you for waiting." We all laughed. One final poop joke from Dad.
One minute later, he was gone.
And as much as sorrow filled the room, it was also buffeted on all sides by equal measures of relief. All we had wanted all week for him was peace. For the struggle to stop. For a week we had all told him we would take care of one another, we would take care of Mom, that when he had to go, it was OK. But his Duracell Bunny body would not give up.
Four days later, I am still numb, but I hurt. How does that even work? I don't know how to do this. Tears come and go. I keep coming up short as the thought "My Dad is dead" hits me. There is now a Dad shaped hole out there where he should be and he's not. We are trying to make the move through all the arrangements as gentle and easy for my Mom as possible, but there is no escaping the reality - despite the bad jokes (yes, I offered to write a limerick for the back of the prayer card just to see how people reacted in their pews), the tightknit way we are, the moments of levity - we are planning a funeral. The black and gold casket, the Steelers attire he will wear... My Dad's funeral.
And just typing that is gutting. He shouldn't be gone. There was still too much to do, to see, to experience. But we are a collection of parts that can go awry at any time. I am grateful he did not suffer longer than he did. So thankful he is not just staring into space in a wheelchair waiting for death. I am glad my Mom will not have to watch him leave her little by little. But it still hurts, so very deeply, so very much. I had him for 55 years. They were married for 59 years.
He was my friend. He was my partner in crime in tormenting my Mom. He was an extraordinary grandfather Unclepap. He was a true patriarch. I know he is only one breath, one heartbeat away, but he's not here.
In his adult life he was in the Air Force, on their pistol team and was once ranked #2 in the world, worked for airlines, and managed airports. Flying was a passion he built into all of us. He could hear a plane fly over and tell you, just by hearing the engines, what it was. He was respected throughout his industry, was once named American Airport Executive of the year, served on response teams when horrific plane crashes took place - his reach was wide. He was a man beloved by his peers, his myriad friends, and his family.
He was also a lifelong Catholic. Anyone who knew him knew he "was almost a priest." Yes, he had been in the seminary, and in his telling got kicked out for asking for phone numbers through the confessional screen. In truth, his life simply went a different direction. A direction that led to my mom, four kids, industry acclaim, seven grandkids, more friends than I can count, and experiences galore. His church awaits his arrival one more time on Tuesday. And he will be missed. All my life, until Parkinson's robbed him of it, he was a lector at mass, a fixture, and if he couldn't be a priest, he was always up there with them. He also believed deeply in where he was going. So picturing him slipping the surly bonds in that last breath, that last heartbeat - I find comfort in him reaching out his hand to touch the face of God.
He loved the skies (as much as he loved the Steelers), so it is fitting to end with the entirety of that sonnet. I love you and will miss you every damned day, Dad. We had a good run.
"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds -
and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of -
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hovering there I've chased the shouting wind along
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
"Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God."
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