My Dad's Last Days

 

 

When I went with Mom to visit Dad at the VA Hospital, I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him alive.  He had suffered a stroke and could not speak. His face was contorted. He looked at me with distant, tortured eyes. I held his hand. I’m sure he saw the pity in my icy eyes. I was right. 

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It was during our time in our  Green Hill Road Home there that mom got the call late one night.

 

“What’s the matter, ma?” 

 

Mom was sobbing. 

 

“Is it dad?”

 

“He’s gone, Joe. He died tonight.”

 

“Oh, Christ!”

 

By now, my sisters were awake and joined us in the kitchen. As soon as they saw mom crying they began to cry. We all knew this day was coming, but the shock was still numbing.  

 

I was a stone. I’d long ago shut dad out of my heart and life. All I could conjure up was that pitiful, sick old man with a stroke-distorted face staring blankly up at me from the hospital bed. There was fear in his eyes. He knew he was looking at the end and was afraid.

 

“I’ll call Doyle’s tomorrow.” Mom was back and musing over the funeral plans.

 

 In a very short time, mom had the funeral arrangements set, a plot at Holy Rood cemetery secured, and a headstone engraved. 

 

My sisters and I kept close to mom at Doyle’s Funeral Home as we greeted cousins, in-laws, and mom’s multitude of friends and acquaintances, many of whom we met for the first time. 

 

“How are you doing, Joe?”

 

“Your dad was a good man.”

 

“Let me know if you need anything.”

 

For two days the ritual continued, then the funeral mass, then the cemetery. I felt nothing. I was glad when it was over and I could be alone to grieve n my own way. 

 

I began to recall what I loved in him-- his great strength, his caring nature that I knew well as his young son, and the great love he had for us when I was so young.  Sitting in my car alone, I cried as I recalled those parts of him. I loved him then as I do now. Becoming a man is complicated, living with the memory of your own father even more so. I miss him.