A Final Letter To Dad

Dear Dad,

On Monday, April 7, 2014 just a few minutes before 9:00am you took your last breath.  We knew this would happen, eventually, when we brought you home the previous Friday.  You were happy to be coming home.  I know that there was a brief moment when after you arrived at home that you thought this might not be a good idea.  Although you said that it was because you were having difficulty breathing, really it was because you were afraid and starting to panic.  Fortunately we were able to help calm your nerves.  Thank goodness for strong drugs.

I know that you were tired and you were ready to move on to whatever is awaiting you on the other side.  I am sorry that you had to go through such mental anguish to get to that ready point.  I know the news of mom’s diagnosis was more than you could handle.  You just could not picture a meaningful life without your wife.  I don’t fault you for that. I admire your dedication.  I must admit, however, that I was upset with you.  I was angry that you were giving up.  That you were giving up on mom.  That you were giving up on a life which, while void of mom’s wonderful presence, could have been that much more full with your kids, grandkids and great grandkids.  I was upset that you would put us through this rollercoaster when you should have been well and mom was the one that needed tending to.

As a child, I did not understand you.  I am embarrassed to say that I did not like you very much. I resented how distant you were during my childhood.  I hated hearing stories about how you would smell our heads when we were babies because you loved that baby fresh smell.  I wanted you to like me even though I was no longer a baby.  You were not a very affectionate man toward your boys.  Later when your grandchildren came along, I was jealous that they got your love and attention.  I was confused why you were able to be so loving with them and not me.  So many times I wanted to hug you and tell you I loved you, but I was afraid to do so because, by example, you taught us that men didn’t do that.  You weren’t just any man though, you were my father.  There were times I needed to hear you loved me.  I know that most of my insecurities, depressive thoughts, and behaviors as an adult stem from my inability to reconcile how I felt about our relationship.

It took certain events happening in my adult life for me to start to understand who you were on the inside and how that was so very different from what I saw on the outside.  I realized things about you that started to give me respect for the job you did as a parent.  I was able to see the ways you were able to show that you loved us.  I recognized things like how you had a plan to provide for your family and how you worked hard for many years to bring that plan to fruition.  I could see how you allowed mom to take credit for things that you gave to us.  I could finally see how you really were interested in the things we pursued, as kids and when we were adults.  I was able to understand the ways that you supported us when we needed help the most.  In the last couple months of your life, I was able to finally witness that you had more than anger and happiness as emotions.

While I never did gather the courage to hug you, we did share a couple of moments.  I will forever remember the moment in the hospital, while mom was having her PET scan, when you were feeling scared and reached out for my hand.  I held your hand, in a way that was more intimate than a handshake for the first time since I was a small child.  I told you that everything would be alright.  You cried and asked me to promise that everything would work out.  We shared one more time like that, the day you came home from the hospital.  I went to the hospital to be with you during the discharge while mom stayed home to wait for your arrival.  Again you reached out for my hand.  Again you were scared.  It was a little bit different this time though.  This time you were scared that you would leave this world without letting me know that you loved me.  You told me you were sorry for being a lousy dad.  I cried and told you that you did the best you knew how and that I loved you very much.  You said you loved your boys and wish you could have done a better job showing it.  You will never know how much that meant to me.  That one moment erased a lifetime of wondering.  You thanked me for taking such good care of you and mom and I told you that I was honored to be able to.

Your last three days with us are difficult to describe.  I don’t know how much of it you would be able to recall and I can only hope that the parts you do recall were pleasant.  There were a couple things that happened that I wish hadn’t, but I cannot change the past.  So I hope you were able to forgive me for those mistakes.  You know which two incidents I am talking about.  They scared me terribly and I felt so bad that I did that to you.  I can only hope that in the end, when you were no longer able to communicate with us, that you appreciated the care I provided.

I haven’t yet processed everything I experienced over the last four days.  I promise not to let it affect me in a bad way, but I will have to face some of those feelings soon.  Right now I am just numb and relieved.  I am relieved that you got what you wanted.  I am relieved that you are no longer suffering.  I am relieved that this part of my journey through life has passed.  I do miss you terribly though.  I watched as they took you away and thought how strange it is that you will never be back.  That I will never see you in your chair.  That we will never go to breakfast again.  Perhaps I will order a plate of home fries with gravy as a little tribute to how much I enjoyed being around you.  I already told mom that I would have a Corona and lime when we have your celebration of life gathering, I know you would like that.

Although I did say a brief goodbye when we had a moment alone, this letter is to tell you the things I could not bring myself to say out loud.  It is also to re-affirm the promise I made with you to make sure mom is cared for and that the remainder of her life is as easy and happy as can be.  I want you to know that I meant it when I said you were the best father you knew how to be.  I no longer fault you for your ways as I know it was how you were raised.  I didn’t get a chance to thank you for working so hard to make sure we would have what we needed when you were gone.  I didn’t get a chance to thank you for giving mom 52 wonderful years (yes we will call it 52 even though you were seven days shy of your anniversary).  I didn’t get a chance to thank you for making sure that mom had fun and got to experience so many awesome places.  Really, though, this letter boils down to one more chance for me to tell you that I love you!

I will never forget the moment I realized you were no longer with us.  Your passing was uneventful and I thank you for that.  I have a feeling you planned it that way.  You waited until we had left the room for a minute and then just quietly stepped out.  I hope mom felt your kiss as you two had always done when you parted.  The house is strangely silent now.  There are no more machines humming or the sound of your heavy breathing.  There are no more pills to crush.  The phones are no longer ringing off the hook.  Everything is still.  Too still.  I turned on a fan so that there would be some noise to break up the deafening silence.  Perhaps I will sleep a full night tonight.  Drop by in my dreams if you want and we can have a chat.  You can tell me what to expect after life is over.  I can tell you how mom is doing.  You can tell me how to get rid of this aroma that my sniffer keeps smelling since you passed.

In case you don’t pop in on me, I will go ahead and tell you that mom is holding up remarkably well.  She spent time talking with you before the hospice nurse arrived and then again before they took you away.  I hope you heard what she had to say.  I’m sure it was important.  She did a good job visiting with everyone that came by or called even though she would have preferred to just be alone.  Help her focus on the things she wants so badly to be able to do.  Keep her mind sharp if you can. I will get mom back into the normal routine you guys had going.  It will be important for her health to keep active and not let your passing bring her down.  She is really hurting though.  Jodi is having a rough time with this as well, so visit her and let her know you are okay.  She really wanted to be here, but it didn’t work out that way.  Look in on George and let him know that we understand why he did what he did.  Tell Aunt Pat I said hello.

Well dad, I guess this is it.  I really don’t want to say goodbye, but I must.  It is difficult though, so please give me strength to get through this and help me when it is mom’s turn to go.  I am sorry if I ever hurt you by favoring mom; it’s just how things turned out and doesn’t change that I love you.

With much respect, love and admiration,

Your middle son