Last month, six days before Christmas, my dad, Jim 91, said he didn’t feel well. This from a guy who lived independently in his downstate house, cared for his little dog Max, and still drove his car. He was a GM retiree and a former university and Army football star. During my life, I can’t remember a time when he was hospitalized.
One of my brothers took him to the emergency room where he was in the intensive care unit and other units for two weeks. He endured numerous tests and procedures and eventually passed away peacefully at the hospital in January.
In June of 2024, I wrote a column about celebrating my dad’s 90th birthday. I still receive comments from readers about that column and my dad loved it.
After my husband Tom, my dad was my person. I’m glad we had him with us for as long as we did. However I wasn’t completely ready for my dad’s passing. The world is generally oblivious to my family’s loss. Life continues moving forward, whether I’m ready or not. I wish I were wearing a black armband symbolizing my mourning. His death even at 91 still hurts.
I spoke with my dad most days. He was totally present until his passed. When we were together he always gave my right shoulder a gentle squeeze as part of saying hello, goodbye or giving comfort.
Even with him gone, my body still feels his hand on my shoulder.
I don’t ever remember my dad raising his voice in anger to me and he definitely never hit me. When we disagreed, we talked it out.
I’ve saved almost all of the cards, letters and gifts my dad gave me. Most special are the recorded voice messages I saved — him singing “Happy Birthday” to me, telling me a joke or describing something he saw during his walk at his favorite park.
My dad was a widower. He had a beautiful military funeral and is buried in a military cemetery. Along with me, his eldest granddaughter spoke at his funeral. She described how nonjudgmental of her he was and how he was more than a typical grandfather. As the eldest of five, I found it difficult to see my younger siblings and their families in pain. When the flag from his casket was folded by three uniformed military personnel, I held my dad’s youngest brother Bob’s, hand. Uncle Bob is the sole survivor of my dad’s family of origin and one of the few in the room who remembers when my dad was shipped out.
My dad’s dog Max, is living with Uncle Bob and his family. My dad was a tremendous animal lover and I’m sure Uncle Bob smiles every time he looks at Max.
A man of deep faith, my dad was a fun, solid guy. Nobody formally taught him how to be a dad. In our society we minimize the role of fathers in their daughters’ lives. We certainly don’t support them or teach them how to be dads. Yet, personally as a daughter, educator and psychologist, I know how vital this relationship is to both.
I’ll deeply miss my dad. I have a new, changed relationship with him. I also have such peace that we were completely up-to-date with one another. We had no emotional debt. Everything important had been said and done.