A Moment in Time

As some of you know, last week my Dad passed away after a long, and often painful to watch, battle with Parkinson’s Disease. He was a man who served his country for over 20 years in the U. S. Air Force including two tours of Vietnam; a small businessman; and a servant of Palm Beach County Sheriffs Office for more than 13 years. Most of all though he was a man who loved his family, I miss him already. This blog though is not going to be about my Dad, that’s too soon and too personal right now. This blog is about that family that he loved so much and specifically about that family in the few days leading up to and following his passing.

I am the oldest of four siblings, three boys and a girl. My two brothers, Dean and Mark who live close to my Mom in Florida with their wives Silvia and Martha, and my sister Beverly who lives in Goodyear, Arizona with her husband Craig, and of course my incredible wife Diane who lives here with me in the beautiful Western North Carolina mountains. In the three days leading up to Dad’s final goodbye, there was never a time when my Mom or at least one of us kids was not sitting by his side, along with the incredible nurses from hospice (angels on earth for sure). We talked to him and told him how much he meant to us and how much he was loved. It was during the evening on Friday that I began to realize just how much we were supporting and caring for each other as much as being there for Dad.

At several points along those long, waiting hours, the staff would make comments about how fortunate Dad was to have such a loving family at his side – I’m pretty certain we never thought about it that way, though it was kind of them to say. It’s clear that, in each of our own way, we were there for Dad and obviously for Mom, but perhaps as much as anything, for each other. Sometimes this was expressed in the stories we would tell around the bed, many of which had been long forgotten by some of us. Sometimes this was expressed by an arm around a shoulder, or a hand placed gently on the back, or a spontaneous eye contact across the hospital bed. Sometimes, often, it was in the quiet minutes as we watched one or another of us hold Dad’s hand and whisper our own words softly in his ear – what was said was not important to those watching. At each step in the process, without prompt we seemed to all know where to be, what to say, (and what not to say). How, in our own way, to express our thoughts and feelings, and we each gave the others the right and freedom to do the same. For me there were many spiritual moments along the way, I suspect for my brothers and sisters also. It is one of those moments in time that will stay with me and, though it occurred at a time of sadness, it will provide memories of a close, loving and uniquely meaningful time.

I am realistically aware that as we have all returned to our various lives, kids and grandchildren, jobs (or not), we will soon be making the usual apologies for not writing more, or picking up the phone, or forgetting an anniversary or a birthday here and there. I’m sure that life will continue to put challenges in front of us that take up all our time and wrap us all busily in our own little worlds. It won’t mean we love each other any less. It certainly won’t mean we won’t be there for each other when the chips are really down – I know we will. What it will mean, for me at least, is that when I need a little pick me up, or a confirmation of meaning, I will have the memories of those few days with my family that assure me how much I love, and am loved, by the most important people in my life. That’s a legacy built by Dad and Mom, and it’s a gift I hope one day I give my own children and grandchildren.

So long Pops, no more rocks to climb!

Until the next one, Namaste.