Fatherless Father's Day Blog Post #1,265,321...But My First

This morning I realized, I've been living out of travel bags and make-up cases for the past three months. Not because I've been traveling for work or going between houses in what should be a fantastically wild romance. Nope. For three months I've been throwing stuff in an overnight bag (perpetually forgetting my mascara) to be at my Mom's house. In March, my Dad got sick and spent 11 days in the creepiest ICU known to hospitals. The bags then, were just to be close to the hospital. A change of clothes after staying the night. For a week or two--anyone can live like a bag lady.

But then somewhere in between those 11 days and today--the bags became permanent. Including the ones under my eyes. On a Friday the 13th--my dad died. Peacefully--but somewhat unexpected. Somewhat--because he was sick--had Rheumatoid Arthritis for 40 years--and his lungs were giving out because of it--but he was fine. 80, but fine. Not breathing or walking well, but fine. Until that day when he wasn't. And the bags stayed packed. For the funeral. For my sisters and I--taking turns to stay with my mom so she wouldn't have to face the loneliness after 55 years of marriage. For work. For the sole purpose of not wanting to be alone in my house. The bags stayed packed and by the foot of my bed. (Just easier to load them back up that way.)

Tomorrow is Father's Day. The first without him. And I'm thinking it would be a really good day to finally unpack--but I'm going to my mom's again. To cook on his BBQ. Like almost every other Father's Day I can remember. But my dad never really liked Father's Day. Never wanted the fuss and muss. And I admit--it was always a challenge to figure out what to get him. There was only so much Red Sox crap you could cram into a den. So I guess I never really liked it either. Because of the gift game--but also because my dad and I were somewhat challenged in the communication department--even when Snoopy cards were involved. (I know, with the length of this post, you're rolling your eyes at that one.) But like you--tomorrow we will talk about him--remember him. But for us--it's a little too soon to be joyful in our remembrance. It's still too raw. I'm still having nightmares about his hospital stay--no nice dreams about being young again, taking trips to Tahoe with him-- yet. Still lots to resolve in my head--unpacking of bigger bags--if you will. The baggage that comes with grief. The heavy bag of no longer having that chance to prove what a good daughter you are--only to find out two days before he died--he already knew. See? THIS overhead bin is already pretty full!? 53 years takes more than 3 months to unpack and put away.

I looked through some pictures to join in the obligatory Facebook observance--changing your profile pic to one of your Dad. But I abandoned that search. And instead found something else on my desktop I wanted to share: what I wrote and read at my dad's funeral mass. All my sisters spoke that day. Each presentation as different as the four of us are in life. One sang. One talked of growing up. One talked of his love for his grandchildren. I decided to forgo memories, and share some of what I talked to my dad about in the hospital just a few days before.  I cherish this gift I got--a real Father's Day--or night--when he started to rebound and feel better off the heavy sedation. We talked. Something Bob and Lynnie never really did much. I wouldn't trade that sweet and scary night--for all the Dad's days in the world. (Well okay--maybe tomorrow. It would have been nice to keep the conversation going.) So this is my Dad's Day gift to him. To share with anyone remembering their own dads tomorrow--maybe struggling with memories and missing buying the Snoopy cards.

I'm sure by next June--I'll be out of the travel bags. Or--maybe not. As you'll read--my dad wished for me--the aforementioned "reason" to keep things packed. Among other things. I miss you Dad. I kinda appreciate that you weren't one of those goofy dads that LOVED this Hallmark holiday. Makes it easier on all of us to just go on living tomorrow. Even if it means wearing no mascara for a few days.

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March 20, 2015

Hi I’m Lynn, or Lynnie—or as dad often called me, #2.

As most of you know, my dad was a brick and stone mason. He built beautiful things –from cement and rock. Fireplaces, buildings, the long wall on 680 in Milpitas, that once blew over and almost caused him to blow over. His last job was on the beautiful house my parents live in now. His disease was cruel, and took away the use of his hands—that held his tools—his career and his creativity.

But what it didn’t take from him—was his strength. His strength as a man, a husband, and a father—lived on and pushed past pain. And that’s why I’ve chosen to talk about his last days with us, as my tribute to Bob the builder—who despite a lifetime of building a home, a family, a legacy—spent his last bits of energy—

de-constructing fear.

Last week--I had the opportunity to spend a few nights with dad alone while he was in the hospital—where we talked--as he struggled to breathe. This meant a great deal to me—as My dad and I were never big on words. Well, soft words anyway—being Italian—there were quite a few “choice” words over the years-- starting with the night I came home late from my first date and he conveniently fell asleep watching baseball on the front lawn. Dad had a brilliant mind, with a sharp wit and a biting sense of humor that comes out in all 4 of us differently—some, just in their snarky Facebook posts about Bart.

 

As we talked—we watched a little television-- HGTV – he cringed when he saw the brick fireplaces all getting painted over white on home renovation shows. I asked him if he remembered MY show—and he said “yeah that guy didn’t know what the hell he was doing.” He tried to watch baseball—but it was the Giants. He told me he hopes I find a nice guy some day. I said I thought I did once—and he shrugged his shoulders and went “meahh.” Soft words. I taught him a little yoga mantra to help him relax in the most un-relaxing of places. (I’m saying that now.)

Small talk, small words. But As he lay there wrestling with what I think he knew was coming--we talked-- about our family, and about our relationship as father and daughter. And how much we loved each other. I told him we haven’t said that enough throughout our lives. And he said “I’m not that kinda guy.” But now I know—he WAS the kind of guy who transcended words. Big or small. Sure, Oprah tells us we all need to say them—and I’m grateful I had that chance to do that -- But what I will always remember and take to my own grave, aren’t so much dad’s words —but his actions—his strength-- as he faced leaving this world and moving on to the next. That example of courage confronting his illness—and the fight he gave at the end-- is all I need to hang on to. 

Later that same night we talked about things we’ve done in life—good and bad. And we talked about judgment. And dad –once again -- sharp as a tack—said: “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” I laughed, because following the HGTV shows--here we were talking about rocks again. That and I wasn’t sure who said that and asked if that was Dr. Phil? But he knew. He was quoting Jesus. And in the end my dad’s faith is what brought him peace. Even though he was using his prayer book in bed to reach and change the TV channels.

In more ways than one—including those icky last hospital days-proved —my dad was  *this. Rock solid. Heavy. This kind of strength stands up for a lifetime. And  weighs heavier than any words. What he built in me, and in that wall along 680—will last forever. Don’t waste time casting stones—make something really beautiful with them. Whether you say it, or show it or paint it over white.

Before I leave—a short word about the “cement” to my dad’s brick. And that is my mom Nancy. Mom—you kept him happy, alive and living with purpose. Without you, he—and we-- are lost.

Finally--I Leave you with these words of wisdom my father bestowed upon me at a very young age that still mean so much to me today: “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with wet cement.”

I love you dad. Always did. Always will. 

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*I brought one of my dad's bricks from his garden to use in my eulogy. I pulled it from my purse--and called it my touchstone. After, we all signed it, and it was lowered down into the grave with him. That way--we'll all be close--forever. And a Bob the Builder never has to be without a brick.