Time and Memory

Friday, March 28th, marked the 15th anniversary of my dad’s death in 2010. In February of that year, after a month of turmoil for us all, he was finally settled into the nursing home after leaving his assisted living with a short stay in the hospital. He’d begun attending the events and, as always, enjoyed the music. My sister Gail said she’d had a nice visit with him, taking him for a walk around the grounds and spending time sitting and talking outside.

It was a Sunday, when I received the call from the nursing home to tell me he had passed away. He was sitting in bed eating breakfast when someone walked by, and when they walked by again, he was slumped over. Just like that. Gail and I contacted the funeral home then headed there and sat with him for a while. It was Palm Sunday and the home left a frond in his room that I took and have in a box with my parents personal belongings.

I’ve written more than once about my mother’s eight week journey from diagnosis to death with Glioblastoma. My dad’s death occurred one week prior to the 23rd anniversary of my mother’s death.

After my mother died, my father carried on. He was 63 and still working in the facilities department at Gaylord Hospital in town. He really loved that job! He was such a people person, he was an awesome painter and wall-paperer, my sister Gail worked there, and the Farms Country Club was next door so he’d look for golf balls during lunch or hit some balls.

He loved “his girls”, his grandkids, golfing, and riding his bike. During my 8 years in California, he visited both with my sisters and by himself and I never had to entertain him. He’d take off for the day on my bike or head to the golf course in town.

I won’t go through the litany of health ailments starting with his 1996 knee replacement, but they were enough to slow him down and significant enough that he was not able to live on his own after 2000. After that, it felt like from late January until April, he, and we, were dealing with one health issue or another.

During this week every year, I think about that. I’ve written about my dad’s childhood, how his mother died when he was turning 3 and his father died the month before his 11th birthday. He and his older siblings were then raised by his 12 years older brother.

What do I think about? I think that he didn’t want to leave his girls alone. I think that he wanted to be with us, to be our dad for as long as he could even if that meant fighting through whatever pain he had. I may sound crazy, but I think after 22 years and 51 weeks my mother said, “Honey, they’re going to be fine, come home” and with that, he went home.