There are three things, though conceivably possible, I never really expected to experience in my lifetime: the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Soviet Union, and the White Sox sweeping the World Series.
My dad missed the last one. He died the morning after the Sox won the pennant.
I don’t know if he knew about the pennant, though my sister said she put the league championship games on in his room. Dad was barely conscious for the last days of his life. Of course, even before that, his cognitive abilities had declined in his last years. Which is a nice way of saying that after a series of strokes that affected him minimally physically, he lost the ability to read, write, and finally, to communicate.
It didn’t happen fast. The strokes had little outward physical effect. For a while, he could still read. But five, six years ago, he told me he’d give anything to be able to do a crossword puzzle again. Four years ago, Mom said he had trouble signing his name to checks. Three years ago, his verbal skills had declined so that only part of the time you could follow what he was saying. He had personality changes; terrible outbursts, ugly, abusive language so far from his “normal” self that it once made my sister laugh. What else could follow but the nursing home, the hospital, the hospice.
I’m glad my sisters were there, because I wasn’t. Dad was in Chicago, and I’ve been everywhere but.
I missed him. Not just because I was far away, but because he wasn’t Dad anymore. Dad and I could argue. Dad and I could talk. Dad was gone already.
It wasn’t a surprise when he died. We’d been expecting it for a week though hoping for it, hoping he’d be freed from his prison, for much longer. Still, no matter how much you expect it, no matter how much you think you’ve already grieved, the death of a loved one kicks you hard. Like tearing open a scab, one friend said. Yes. You bleed anew.
As I stood before the casket at the funeral, it seemed so small. Are they always so small? Perhaps it’s because dads are bigger than life to little girls.
I didn’t have to see him go into the ground. At the Veteran’s cemetery, they have a little service in a pavilion, but the actual internment happens later. I’m glad. The good-bye was wrenching enough as it was.
Isaac had a picture of Dad on the ancestor altar for me even before I was packed for Chicago. It’s sad to see him there, but good, too. He was a good man. I would not be what I am today without him.
Tonight, Samhain, as the veil between the worlds thins, I’ll light a candle before the ancestor altar and have a little talk with my dad.
