Bye, Daddy

It's now December 4. Two weeks ago today, I buried my father. He died peacefully in his sleep on Monday, November 17, 2014. Valerie, his nurse at the Castle, was so kind and gracious when she called to share the news. When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a few minutes, knowing that the days following would be a blur of activity and decisions. I allowed myself to be still, to quietly honor his final battle with life. 

Then came the phone calls. Those are the hardest calls to make. I knew I needed my rock, so I first called The Pie's Favorite Aunt and my best friend. When she answered, I spoke two words: "he's gone." I don't even remember what she said...it seems like she just instantly appeared at my side. Awesome Neighbor was next on the list; and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped in her embrace, crying. My Crazy Aunt, Dad's baby sister, was my next call. She was such a great support during the previous several months, and she was already planning to arrive the next day for a visit. She just missed him. All the phone calls bled into one long repetitive conversation and by the time they were finished, I didn't even want to talk about it anymore. 

We went to the Castle, where a hospice nurse was finishing up giving Dad a shave. I saw his body there in the bed, but what I didn't see was pain, anger, sadness or regret. I saw peace. I held his hand and rubbed his still warm head; said good-bye. I felt in a very odd way, that I had just become an event planner - that I was delegating tasks to the appropriate people, fielding questions to which only I knew the answer. The hospice chaplain, Terry, was helpful and mindful of the journey that awaited me over the next several days. Dad wanted the same funeral service that did Mom's funeral to do his, so they were called and as I awaited their arrival, I began to gather Dad's personal belongings. 

There wasn't much, really. He hadn't allowed me to bring too much stuff there. "It's not my home," he told me once. When the all-grown-up son of someone I graduated high school with arrived from the family owned funeral service, we left so as not to witness the transfer. As we walked out the door, the director stopped me and handed me an envelope. I would discover days later that it was his final bill. Classy, right? 

My best friend stuck by me every moment. Just her presence calmed me. I could think clearer, make decisions quicker, be okay. There was one big decision to make and I really needed her there with me. How would I tell The Pie? 

When she got home from school, The Pie was her usual ebullient self; chattering on about the day's events and which boy had aggravated her the most. I asked her friend to go home and beckoned The Pie to join me in the big chair. I took a deep breath and said, "Papa went to Heaven today." She broke down in sobs and all I could do was cry with her and hold her tight. My heart broke for her. In her young life, she had already lost her Mimi and her Papa. But, as young children often do, she rallied, and we talked calmly about how much we would miss him. 

The next day was filled with meetings and conversations: the funeral director, the preacher, bank, the railroad board. The nursing home, the hospice agency and primary care doctor were also on the list. I had prepared a file for service information, so that went surprisingly smoothly and was able to maintain my composure for most of the day. I'm glad I had Crazy Aunt with me, though. I didn't want to be completely alone. One thing I was laser focused on was the music for the service. I contacted the man who was my elementary school music teacher (in the 70s) and asked him to sing at the service. Never mind that I hadn't seen him nearly 40 years, it's what I wanted, and I was damn well going to get it. 

The day of the service was sunny and only a little chilly. The Pie and I got up early to attend visitation, to see Papa one last time. That little girl is so strong and practical that it astounds me. We stood together at his open casket and as I cried, she held my hand tightly and rubbed my arm. "It's ok, Mama," she said. "He's in Heaven now." I must have done something right along the way...she's so smart! 

We went for breakfast, then came home to prepare for the funeral. She picked one of her favorite dresses and I went with the standard black. I felt appropriately respectful, but pushed the envelope with my shoes...high and pointy. We arrived at the funeral home chapel a little later than I anticipated and there already people there. It threw me off a little, but it was nice to see them there to honor my dad. Next, I went to a small room to visit with my music teacher. We both look a lot different that we did in the 70s, but I was momentarily nine years old again, looking admirably at him. Even back then, his faith was strong and obvious. I am grateful that he was willing to make the drive. 

The service was perfect - exactly how I planned it. It was a teeny bit irreverent, like my dad, but still respectful of his life and how he lived it. Mr. Music Teacher sang "My Tribute (To God be the Glory)" and "It Is Well (With My Soul)", my best friend did an uplifting reading, the preacher gave a wonderful eulogy, the song "Daddy's Hands" was played, I read a poem I wrote for Dad 10 years ago and I read something that The Pie wanted to say, but ultimately got too shy for. I held it together pretty well until the end, when the military color guard began their rite of flag folding and presentation. I hadn't seen it in person before and wasn't sure what to expect. But it moved me to my core. The young men were precise, respectful, honorable. The soldier who presented the flag to me went down on bended knee...and as he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. 

I lost it. I couldn't hold it in any longer. My grief exploded in waves of tears, realizing that my daddy was really gone. God was taking care of him now, not me. He was finally with my mom and his brothers, up to mischief, frolicking without pain or depression. I will have a period of adjustment: getting used to having more time on my hands, not having to consider his dietary restrictions when meal planning, etc. And I will miss it. 

And I will miss him. Forever.