Death and Life
A “Guru” Contributor Explores Life After (His Father’s) Death
Okay, here’s the thing: You don’t have to read this long essay, but I have to write it—and get it out of my head.
My father died March 18, 2024.
It was unexpected.
Yes, my father was 87 and slowing down. But who knew that after a complaint of his legs hurting him over a weekend that after taking to him to the hospital that Monday, a week later, he’d be gone.
It said COPD on the death certificate.
Huh? Okay…
On Sunday, the last day I saw my father alive, I stayed with him longer than I had before. I’m glad I did. I don’t remember anything about what we spoke of, although he said he was fine and didn’t understand why he was there anymore since his legs no longer hurt.
I told him if he felt the same way Monday, I’d sign him out and I could just drive him to his rehabilitation appointments.
I don’t why, but when I left, I said goodbye several times. I’d walk past a wall, leaving his room, unable to see him any longer, then come back and say goodbye again. On the final, tender goodbye, I smiled and promised to see him tomorrow.
I did. But he didn’t see me. He was unconscious. And about 45 minutes later, he expired.
My theory? I don’t think he was ready to go yet. But his body was. Maybe because he was in the hospital his body just grew tired…and let itself go.
Anyhow it’s been over a month and every day I told myself I had to write this essay, but couldn’t. I knew it was going to be lengthy (and perhaps, whiny to others?), but I had to get everything off my chest.
I’ve slacked on everything, really. I’m currently unemployed, but I’ve put off looking for a job.
I’ve slacked on writing for this website, too. If that means anything (i.e., if anyone actually reads the “Potpourri” section of ErieCulture.Guru or the reviews that I contribute to it).
I do apologize, but personally, I had bigger fish to fry. I hope you understand.
So that said, please be patient and just let me get this e-missive, this threnody, public exposure. There are things I need to say. To someone.
And since I’m a single man now living alone, with no close family, no wife, no kids, no friends, allow me to exorcise these thoughts out of my head, transcribe it onto this website and into the world, so I can move on.
*
My father was cremated. The only tradition I followed regarding his funeral was to publish his obituary. The funeral director had asked if I’d wanted a showing of the body. I declined.
It turned out to be a good decision.
If only based for the fact that of my father’s “friends” or neighbors, where he lived on this road for approximately 70 years, I only received one, single condolence card.
And that was from “Judy.” A woman who became reacquainted with Dad after their 1955 class reunion in 2015. She and my father would occasionally talk on the phone and, according to her condolence card, he even visited her at her senior apartment in Girard.
Thank you, Judy. I really appreciated the card. It really meant something to me.
But damn my uncaring neighbors. Like the people who live catty corner across the road from us. The husband who knew my dad for perhaps 70 years and not a knock on the door, nor a condolence card slipped into my mailbox that’s only 200 feet from his own box.
I now have nothing but contempt for the hicks that live around here.
*
Now, as soon as I get home from running errands, I see Dad’s empty, still, rocking chair in the living room and I turn on the TV. It’s just too quiet here.
I find myself cleaning a lot. While I’d never classify myself as a fastidious person, somehow in sweeping the floor, wiping the counters down, etc., I feel I’m in control of my situation.
I wash the dishes, too. One of the few tasks Dad would do around the house, besides getting the mail. Before this, I hadn’t touched a dish cloth (well, maybe once) since I moved back home.
I now leave an outdoor light on for myself when I have to travel in the evenings. Before, I’d always forget. But my Dad always turned it on for me. Now, a few times I’ve actually remembered to turn it on. But when I see it when I return, I always think for a split second, “Dad’s here!
Then I realize, no. And for that moment, I’m heartsick.
*
I know I’ve lived a sheltered life. Going to college, graduating, living on part-time jobs, going to college again, graduating, living on part-time jobs again, etc.
But finally, at 60 years of age, after my father’s estate closes, I will be a homeowner. I will begin paying taxes on a house.
And if that’s not an adult thing, what is?
How about searching for your father’s will? In doing so, I found an old love letter from my dad to my mother when they were dating. It showed me a side of my father I never knew.
Another adult thing is to pack things up, let go and decrease my father’s presence.
I’ve begun writing “deceased, return to sender” on all his health insurance mail. Prescription reminders from Walmart have asked me if I wanted to continue receiving texts to my phone regarding his medicines. If yes, reply “Y,” if no, reply “N.”
I clicked “N” and was done.
The easiest thing? Do nothing.
When it was time to re-subscribe to the local newspaper, I simply let it run out. I won’t miss it. I never have time to read it. I currently have a pile of old newspapers from weeks ago on the kitchen table that, while I don’t wish to discard them, I can’t imagine when I’ll have time to read them.
But I keep putting off canceling a somewhat expensive weekly magazine that my Dad enjoyed.
Maybe today after finishing this essay?
*
I plan to donate Dad’s good spring/summer clothes to Erie’s homeless shelters; the stained ones I’ll cut up and use for rags. Same with the fall/winter clothes. But I’ll donate those in autumn, when it gets cooler and they’ll be much more appreciated.
Thrifty as I am, I’d probably wear some of his clothes, but they’re simply too small for me.
I’ve already donated some of his eyeglasses. The new ones he got from the Veterans Administration a few months ago, that for some reason, he never wore and two others, I simply dropped into those white cardboard boxes sponsored by the Lions’ Club.
But his old eyeglasses—the dirty, scratched ones he continued to wear—I took out of the shaving kit with his socks and underwear from the hospital and placed on the TV tray next to his rocking chair.
But some items I can’t donate. Yet.
A denim jacket that he always wore (and I always disliked), with brown sleeves that always looked dirty even after I washed it, just reminds me too much of him. His old, beat-up pair of slippers and a blue satin baseball jacket emblazoned with his former workplace’s name on it (something I never bothered to ask him about and now I’ll never know how he got it or what for reason) are some things I’ll always keep them around.
But what do I do with the tiny knickknacks? Teensy Red Cross pins for donating a certain amounts of blood? Or little badges from his Linesville job for perhaps honoring his attendance, his years working there or for accomplishing something?
Things I never took a second to ask him about, things I’ll never know now.
Even a piece of paper with the satellite TV channel numbers that I tacked on the wall next to his rocking chair so he could find his favorite channels, I can’t dispose of.
These are small things that I just can’t toss right now.
Toss? “Donate” sounds better, doesn’t it?
But most for most of his belongings it’s all just…too soon.
*
I try to humor myself with things I won’t miss about my Dad, although they’re so petty they of course, cannot compensate for his absence.
Things like:
Leaving a knife with jelly on the counter that always attracted ants.
Leaving empty, finished food containers or wrappers on the counter, rather than throwing them away—thus, allowing me to do it.
Taking down a new roll of toilet paper when there’s still some on the toilet paper holder.
Replying that he wasn’t hungry, then making an over-easy egg and toast as his supper. I’m not an egg person. I can handle the stink of a fried egg and toast at breakfast time, but in the evening hours the smell just made me want to retch.
Spending half his day watching Fox News. (Sorry, I don’t mean to get political, but it’s not my cup of tea.)
But all of those petty things and many more I’d happily put up with if you were here again…
Goodbye, Dad.
I love you and I’m going miss you.
Terribly.
Your son, Gregory
End
