On Death and Celebration

It’s déjà vu all over again.

A few days after my father had passed away I was riding in the car with my son and asked him if he’d like to help me out with something.

Son: No, sorry, I have stuff to do tonight.

Me: Are you sure?

Son: Yeah.

Me: You know what I wish I could do?

Son: What?

Me: [in a somber tone and with appropriately sad eyes] I wish I could help my dad with something…

Son: [turning towards me with a look of horror], No! You can’t do that! Do not do that! That’s not fair!!

Me: I’m totally going to do that.

My father had a great sense of humor, yes, that kind of sense of humor, and would have enjoyed that little exchange.

And if you’re experiencing any déjà vu it’s okay, it was my father-in-law who passed away last month.

Yes, it’s turning out to be one of those years.

So, it was back up to Pennsylvania to go through the whole routine again.

There you are, my old friend. I missed you.

Of course, it was different this time. This time, I was the one who was at the very center of Grief, Inc.

It occurred to me some years ago that if your life works out the way it’s supposed to, you get to bury both your parents.

And that’s best case.

Given that, his demise, every element of it, went as well as anyone could reasonably expect.

He lived well into his nineties, long enough that my son, whom we had late, was able to reach an age where he will be able to remember him in a meaningful way. I made sure they, and we, had a chance to spend time together, with annual family trips to his beloved Fenway Park, and trips to visit on Father’s Day for a multi-generational celebration.

Regret is a horrible thing to live with, and I vowed long ago to live a life free of it. If you go through life, day in and day out, with that in mind, you never have to worry about things you could have or should have done.

Just do them.

And don’t waste time beating yourself up because you missed a thing or two. Life happens. Just do the best you can.

That is all my father ever asked of us.

He had been suffering from a long illness, but up until the final couple of weeks was in surprisingly good shape and spirits.  My brothers and I had spent enormous amounts of time with him, particularly as the end drew nearer, and everything that had to be said was said. He made sure we were okay and was aware enough that our assurances that we were gave him great comfort, and the peace and mercy to feel he did not have to hang on and suffer any longer. He had also made sure to see his priest shortly after entering the assisted living facility he moved to a few months earlier.

He was ready, body and spirit.

The service itself was wonderful and both my brothers amazing, as they have been all along. Friends and family came from all over. I met people who got their first job because of my father, people whose lives he had touched.

There were no fights, no hurt feelings over who got the silverware, aided in part by the fact that my parents could never afford silverware for us to fight over.

In fact, when it came to splitting up the handful of things he had left behind (he was not particularly sentimental nor drawn to objects) this is what you’d hear:

“You take it.”

“I’ll take it if no one else wants it.”

“I’d really like to have this one.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“I have a strong emotional attachment to any Krugerrands you may or may not find.”

Okay, that last one may have just been me.

There were no Krugerrands.

That I know of…

But truly, that kind of thing makes a world of difference. I’ve seen families torn apart and relationships strained if not destroyed over such things. And it wasn’t just my brothers, his sons, full-grown adults, were just as easy going. “I don’t have that one,” one said referring to a 2004 Red Sox World Series hat I had pulled down off my father’s garage wall along with one from 2018.

“Take it,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Yep!”

I kept the 2018 World Series hat which worked out as I’m pretty sure that’s the one I gave him for Christmas that same year, and had joked about at the time:

Dad: This is very nice, thank you!

Me: No problem, I’ll probably be getting it back soon enough.

And yes, my dad laughed at that. He really did have that kind of sense of humor.

And now I have a hat.

My wife and I, having just done it for her dad, took on the task of putting together a couple of picture boards. I’m not sure if this is a universal thing, or regional, but in PA there’s always a picture board or two full of pictures to mark the life of the deceased. If nothing else, it gives people something to look at other than their shoes as they wait to pay their respects.

As you can imagine, it’s a bit of an emotional roller coaster but also very cathartic. Still, there were logistical challenges to consider regarding balance as my dad had remarried after the passing of my mother about 15 years ago.  I told everyone to let me know what their “must have” pictures were, and like with everything else, people were wonderful about that, pointing out just one or two which made it a lot easier. Plus his extended family contributed pictures I’d never seen before which was nice.

And yes, we managed to not populate it with an excessive number of pictures of ourselves and our son.

Although it was tempting.

Regarding all my step-relatives, while I was naturally very sad when my mother died, I realized had she not, I never would have met all these other wonderful people.

Life can be hard, but there are gems to be found if you can look beyond your own sorrow.

You always hear that funerals should be a celebration of life. Easy to say, but really hard to pull off, at lease theoretically, when you are consumed with grief.

And yet, as I’ve mentioned before, funerals are like weddings in that they bring everyone together, often for the first time in years.

And that’s why you always hear people laughing at funerals.

Well, not during the service, that would insensitive, but pretty much everywhere else.

And we laughed a lot. Uproariously, celebrating his life in part just by being together and enjoying each other’s company, which would have been very important to him.  

My brothers and nephews, the wives and grand nephews and friends and so on, are all wonderful people. The night of the memorial service we took over the hotel lobby. Did you know hotels offer a “bereavement rate?”

“We’re very sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose money booking a room!”

(Not a real marketing slogan, but should be.)

Pizza was purchased, beer and whiskey were brought out, and yes, we had a party.

We had fun.

It’s weird to be asked how a funeral went and respond, “It was great!”

But you know what? It was great.

And he truly would have wanted it that way.

I still grieve, I still have trouble wrapping my head around the thought that I’ll never see him again, at least not on this earthly plain. A couple days after he passed, I was at work. I had not told anyone yet, and a work colleague innocently asked as part of a totally unrelated conversation, “are both your parents still alive?”

I hesitated for a beat or two, and said, for the first time in my life, “No.”

That will take some getting used to.

But I smiled this morning as I donned that 2018 World Series hat and headed out into the rain.

And there is still some entertainment ahead.

The day of the funeral  my son and I had this exchange:

Son: I got a text from my friend during the service.

Me: Oh, this should be good.

Son: Quiet, let me talk.

Me: This is definitely going to be good.

Son: Shh. She asked if I could play Roblox.

Me: That’s it, reel her in.

Son: Shh. I said no.

Me: Reel her in.

Son: She responded, “rude.”

Me: Now, put the hammer down.

Son: So I said, I can’t because I’m at my grandfather’s funeral.

Me: Boom!

Son: She said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Me: That’s how it’s done.

Dad would have liked that.