another anniversary

a more personal one

My father passed away thirty-five years ago this morning, thirty-six hours after a massive stroke late on a Saturday afternoon. When the call came, I knew before picking up the phone.

I discussed my father on Father’s Day, then again on the centenary of his birth last month. He was as complex as most of us yet brought so many experiences and lessons that I didn’t appreciate for many years. I wish I could have changed so many things for him but, alas, I can’t.

There was no question of whether to pack ‘mourning’ clothes for the flight to their home. I knew my mother would hold a funeral rather than a cremation which I doubted they had discussed; turned out they had discussed it, to my surprise. He hated spending money on things so I didn’t know that he would want a funeral but I was wrong. My overarching fear was that they had not discussed end-of-life choices as my father detested and recoiled from discussions of sensitive things. He had seen so much death at Iwo Jima that he didn’t do ‘touchy feely’. Revision in my understanding: he didn’t discuss with us kids, even as adults, but he knew what he wanted.

Most of what I knew about his enlistment deployments was from his sister who had zillions of letters he wrote from overseas. He barely ever discussed his war experiences, only the last full evening we spent together on their front porch three weeks before the stroke. I often wonder if he had some sort of premonition. My then-spouse and I had made an unexpected visit to their house when weather thwarted other plans. My dad likely thought my former spouse would understand a bit as my former father-in-law was a junior officer at Normandy. We three sat on the porch for several hours as I peppered him with questions until I realised I should let him talk. It was so rare an opportunity and the pain so obviously deep that I appreciated whatever insights he would share. Little did I know I would never have the chance again.

My dad made futile attempts to stop smoking but he was truly addicted to nicotine. He was also, as you probably can guess, rather self-contained so he bottled up so much. Cigarettes were the outlet. He told us in Colombia in the ‘60s that he knew he needed to stop but failed repeatedly. The handful of times I saw him angry were terrifying so this ‘release’ was a better solution in his mind. I often wonder, thirty-five years later, how he could have afforded cigarettes at today’s cost. Perhaps he would finally have had to stop.

He desperately wanted to see the world. He served our nation in probably two dozen countries over the years but he never got the one trip he most wanted: Scotland. In his later years, he was happy just going anywhere but he didn’t even get to do that as my mother made such a big deal of everything, spoiling the opportunities for him to enjoy. To the best of my memory, his final trip was to meet the first grandchild, born four months before the stroke. I can’t find the bloody picture of him holding her but it radiated pride and joy. He would have delighted in all four as they are each so like him in their own ways. Talk about spoiling those kids would have received but none remembers him.

He was a saver, despite the cigarettes. He loved sitting at the table playing mental games whenever he needed make a big purchase, gaming out the options over and over and over. It took me years to realise the process was much more pleasurable than the disappointment of not getting what he really wanted. He rarely spent on what he wanted because he had grown up understanding he might need the money later for some unexpected emergency. He had lived that story more than once.

He had no interest whatsoever in personal dramas. His ability to tune out conversations or other people’s tsoris was remarkable.

He used three phrases more often than any others.

Life isn’t fair…get over it now.

Most things in life are relative rather than absolute.

Statistics are really irrelevant except the final score.

About six weeks after he passed, my mother received a note from one of the other civilians in Vietnam with my dad. The fellow commented that if there were anyone who medical science should have found a way to save, it was my dad. Thirty-five years later I marvel that the trip to the emergency room the day before, when my mom knew something did not seem right, didn’t prove helpful at all for preventing the stroke. As Mick Jagger’s memorable words remind us, ‘you can’t always get what you want’. Medicine won’t always come through.

He had a mere three years’ retirement. I have already surpassed the age where we lost him, though he has been gone more than half of my life and well more than half of my brother’s life.

I told my brother this afternoon something we all know but forget far too quickly.

‘He loved life but did not get to enjoy it. Be safe and enjoy it. The other shit isn’t worth it.’

I send the same humble words to you as I reflect this afternoon. Don’t take for granted that you will see someone again as there will be a final time, often one you don’t anticipate as such.

Thank you for your support. FIN