Monday, May 30, 2005
Memorial Day
My father died on March 10. I've spent a good part of the time
since then trying to come to terms with my feelings. I've never lost
a close family member before, and it felt as if this was something
that had happened to me, personally, and to no one else. No one
could possibly understand the deep sense of loss that I felt.
This was, of course, patently ridiculous. My mother lost her
husband of fifty-eight years. My brothers and sisters all lost the
same father that I did. Their loss, even the unprecedented
experience of losing someone so close, is identical to my own. I
have no exclusive claim to grief in my father's passing.
But the loss, while not unique, is still very real. In my
forty-four years there has never been a time when I could not talk
to Dad. To be sure, there have been many times I didn't especially
want to, usually when I had done something particularly bone-headed
and was afraid to face the consequences. Afraid, in other words, to
face Dad. But there was never a time when he wasn't there.
As I grew into a man, I never stopped being concerned about Dad's
opinion of me. As I made major decisions in life, one of the
questions I'd always ask myself was, "What will Dad think of this?"
And even as a man, there were times that I did something
particularly bone-headed and was afraid to call Dad. But he was
always there.
Until March 10. Now he's gone, and the loss that I feel is
profound. I didn't call Dad often enough while he was here, now I
never can again. Now, almost three months later, my mind is still
trying to grasp that fact. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone.
But I'm not writing this so that I can wallow in my grief. He's
gone, but I remain, and if there is anything that I learned from
Dad, it's that life should be spent living, not regretting past
failures and misfortunes. Charles Dickens said it well in A Tale
of Two Cities:
Reflect upon your present blessings, of
which every man has many; not on your past misfortunes, of
which all men have some.
Dad certainly had his share of past misfortunes, but you'd never
know it, except in the stories that he told. Even those stories of
misfortune he told with the gusto of one who lives very much in the
present, and has no regrets for the past.
I went to see him the day before he died. I passed a couple of
hours with him, not knowing what to say. It was hard to see him this
way, this man who had always lived with such passion, lying in a
hospital bed, wearing an oxygen mask, unable to move, barely able to
speak. As I left, I kissed his head, bald from months of
chemotherapy, told him I loved him, and walked from the room. As I
looked back, he raised his left hand and waved. It was hard walking
out of that room that day. Somehow I knew it would be the last time.
I’m sure he knew. But he had no regrets.
I'm writing this on Memorial Day, the day that we as a nation
have set aside to honor those who lived and died in the service of
their country. I've always considered myself a patriot, and I've
always had a great respect for the men and women who serve in the
armed forces of the United States. They put themselves in harm's way
so that the rest of us can enjoy the liberties that we take so much
for granted.
This Memorial Day is personal to me, however, because Dad was one
who made that sacrifice. He joined the Navy when he was only 15,
early enough to see the end of the Second World War. Later he spent
a year in Vietnam, parted from his wife and seven children, fighting
an unpopular war because he believed in the country that asked him
to go. I consider myself a patriot. I learned that from Dad. But my
patriotism is a mere shadow of his, and pales in comparison.
So now on this Memorial Day, I honor, as always, my country's
fallen heroes. But I honor and remember one in particular. My
hero. My Dad.
So long, Dad. I love you. I miss you. But I'm confident I'll see
you again.
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