Columbus was still holding on…
Although there were growing questions about his role in history, he was still held in some respect. In fact, that year saw a celebration of the 500th anniversary of his voyage to the ‘new world’. There were speeches and books, TV specials and a parade of tall ships that sailed under the Verrazano and into the harbor just where they would stay for the fireworks!
I remember standing in the Wagner College parking lot in the fog that afternoon, watching them pass under the bridge, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
It was July 4, 1992 and a moment of change.
My father had been suffering from Parkinson’s disease for about twenty years, and was now at the end of his battle…the end of his life.
A life that began on the plains of South Dakota, where he grew up with his five brothers and a sister, working hard on the farm, and literally walking through the mud and snow to go to school! My guess is that all this farm-work inspired my father to higher education, and the desire to become a teacher!
This served him well when the war came and he was called away from his job as a High School teacher to serve in the Army Air Corps…as a teacher, at first anyway. He taught in New England, and took weekend trips to New York, where he met my mother at a church function in the Bronx.
The Army was kind enough to wait until after they were married to send him to the Pacific to be a Meteorologist. He arrived in the Philippines not long after liberation, and lived in the Governor’s mansion for a time, with several other servicemen. I believe he also spent some time in Korea, after the official end of the war, before coming home.
Once home, he completed his formal education (though he never stopped learning) in Madison Wisconsin, and later went on to teach at Annapolis (briefly) and then to Upsala College, in New Jersey, where he and my mother built a life together. Along the way they raised five children, including me, who came into the family through adoption.
It was not a prosperous life, but a rich one, as the family grew, and they shared what they had with all those around them, serving the community, church and college. In addition, my parents guided their children as they too travelled the winding road to adulthood, and even took me on as an addition…just when they were starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel of parenthood.
I remember the summer of 71, as my dad was getting the house ready to host my sister’s wedding. He was painting the outside of the big house in East Orange. I remember how we wore a pair of shorts that might once have been dress pants, black socks and an old pair of his “church” shoes (they would go from church, to work, to weekends, to work-shoes). I wanted to help him paint, but was probably getting in the way more than anything else. Being a kind man, he did let me hold the bottom of the ladder, and carry (closed) cans of paint, which was a good way to keep me busy and occupied.
I was glad to be able to help, and happy to spend time with my father, who I looked up to more than anyone ever. I was also impressed with how quickly and expertly he accomplished the task of painting the big house.
To me, it seemed that there was nothing he could not do well.
What I didn’t know is that this was around the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I did not find out about this diagnosis until sometime later…and when that happened, I was assured that this illness would take a long time to really have any effect on him, he would still be my father for some time to come.
Problem is that time does go by…
Between the illness and my father’s age, as he was already approaching 60 when I learned of his illness, it seemed to me that he faded quickly.
My father was always strong, active and involved, and while the desire remained, his body continued to let him down, so that by the time I was a teenager, I was doing much of the work around the house so he would not have to…including painting the big house again, which I did just before my sister and brother in-law celebrated their eighth anniversary.
Of course, I did a lot of this work under his direction and my mother’s supervision…it’s how I learned the value of doing the job right the first time.
My father managed to continue teaching until I was in my last year of college, when he finally retired and my parents sold the big house in East Orange and moved down to the southern regions….of New Jersey. There, they would be close to my oldest brother and situated right in between the rest of us, as I had a brothers in Maryland and New Jersey, and sister who lived on Staten Island, where I would soon relocate.
My parents bought a nice little house in a retirement community in Mount Laurel, joined a new church, made new friends, and enjoyed a growing number of grandchildren…but still my father faded.
Parkinson’s is a nasty disease, and it took its sweet time doing its nasty business as I watched my father leave this world is stages. First it slowed him down physically, making his movement stiff and difficult, and then it began to rob him of other things he loved. Like teaching, reading, learning about new things.
In time, the disease and the medications used to fight it even began to rob him of who he was as he began to hallucinate, and then forget things as he lost track of what was real and caused by his illness.
I remember one time, when I joined him in playing with a puzzle that only he could see, and he would tell me of people and things going on around him that were not there.
This was incredibly difficult to watch, as he fell deeper into this illness he seemed further away, and he also he became agitated by his visions and would need to be calmed down.
This what happened on the afternoon my wife (at the time) and I came for a visit. My wife (at the time) and my mother went out to shop and have lunch, as a way of giving her a break from care-giving. This gave me the opportunity to spend time with my father, and help take care of him.
During that afternoon, we went back to the Philippines. My father kept telling me he needed to go, and go right now! He even commanded me to get the car, it was important that he go to see his commanders. He kept saying “I’m a Second Lieutenant, I am responsible!” I told him that he had done his duty and done it well, that he could relax now, there was nothing more to be done. This seemed to calm him for a while…until it began again.
Finally, he told me “You don’t know what I have done!” The way he said this, gave me a chill, as he sounded guilty, as if what he did was something awful. I could not imagine him ever doing anything that terrible…ever. I know that most of us have done things we were not proud of, but could not see my father being guilty of anything more than the most minor of mistakes. Yet here he was, racked with guilt! Although I did my best to calm him, to be reassuring, I too was shaken to see this good man so overcome…and it made me sad to see him that way over whatever wrong his illness was manufacturing.
It was not long after, that it got to the point where my mother could not manage him any longer, even with the help she got from my brother (who lived a few minutes away) and the rest of us. We wavered between a full-time aide and a nursing home, unsure of how to proceed…until the decision was taken from us.
My father was hospitalized once again, and from there he went to a facility, which is where I last saw him.
It was on a rainy Friday, the Third of July, 1992.
When I saw him a week before, he was on oxygen, having trouble staying awake and not making much sense. I wonder if he even knew where he was, or who we were. So, when I returned on that Friday, I was not hopeful; however, I was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting up in bed, smiling and talking! I was there with two of my brothers, my sister and my mother, and he knew us all. He asked us how we were, we asked about him, and it was almost as if he wasn’t so terribly ill.
For a brief time, he was himself again.
Unfortunately, his lucidity did not last long, it was as if he surfaced just enough to tell us good bye. As that afternoon moved towards evening he drifted off, falling back down into his illness. I remember looking out of his window to see a couple of squirrels playing on the lawn, and I turned back to see him sleeping. As far as I know, he never came that far back again, although I know he perked up a little when my other brother came to visit the next morning.
That was one of the first times that I saw something that would become familiar to me. Although I did not know what it was then, I have seen it many times since, while working as a hospital chaplain, it is a look that some people get when they see death approaching. It’s hard to describe this look, other than it’s a look of serenity, as if they are accepting the fact that life is coming to an end…that they are okay this.
It is as if they are relieved that their struggle is over.
When I saw this look on his face, I had the feeling that this would be my last visit, so I was sure to let him know that it was okay for him to leave us…to move on.
This brings us back to that next day, standing there in the Wagner college parking lot, trying to see the tall ships through the fog. I had just come back from a 12-step meeting, where the speaker had talked about losing his own father, ten years before, also on July 4th…no coincidences.
He had talked about his regret for never making amends with his father, and this made me glad that I had this opportunity. I was able to have that talk with my father, while he could still understand what I was saying, about a year before he died. During this conversation, I thanked him for choosing to be my father, and apologized for the sorrow I had caused. I also promised that I would never call anyone else “father”.
A promise I have kept, despite meeting my biological father a few years later.
I came home from the meeting, expecting to find out that my father had passed, but there was still no news. I was too antsy to just sit and wait, so I went out to try and see the tall ships, but was frustrated by the fog.
It was not long after I walked back up the hill to my apartment that I got the call. I remember standing there in the kitchen and looking out through the screen, into the college football field behind the house, watching as the weak sunshine tried to make an impression, listening as I was told he had slipped away peacefully that morning as my mother held his hand.
Of course, I wanted to take action, get in the car and drive down to South Jersey to be with my family…but my mother asked me to wait. She told me there was nothing for me to do, as it was a Saturday and a holiday, all I could do is give her more to worry about. I was frustrated, but I understood.
It was like when I wanted to help my father paint the house, and the best thing I could do was to stay out of the way.
However, I could not just sit still, as if nothing had happened…I had to do something!
I turned to my wife, who suggested we go to another meeting. This was a good choice, so we went and I raised my hand and shared my loss, and got the support I needed. After, we decided to go to the movies. We arrived at the theatre to see Lethal Weapon 3, only to find a bunch of folks who had been at the !2-step meeting, and we all sat and watched the movie together!
For a little while, I was able to put my grief aside as I enjoyed the movie and the company of my wife and my friends. When the movie ended, we all went out to eat, and I remember how good it felt to know I was not alone. To be surrounded by support when I needed it the most!
After the diner, we wound up at yet another meeting, where I got more support, more strength, things I needed for the dreadful days to come, days of making arrangements, visitations, and the funeral.
Looking back now, I am glad that I had that day to rest, to recharge and prepare, as the full strength of the loss had not hit me yet. Waiting gave me an opportunity for pause.
It also gave me the chance to write a tribute to my father, typed out late that evening, on my word-processer, which was more like a typewriter with a screen. I was glad to be able to read it at his service, but I’m sad that this piece has been lost to time.
However, I do remember one part of it: the fact that my father did not care that much about money, that his wealth was deeper, it was in the love he shared with his family, and in the kindness and compassion that he showed others throughout his life.
His true wealth was in the richness of a life well lived and in all the lessons he left us, for he truly was a teacher…and as with any great educator, his lessons have lived on with all those touched by his life and example.
It is fitting that my father died on the Fourth of July, as the pastor said during his service: “It was his Independence Day from his illness.” An illness that held him back, and took so much from him, but it was the mercy of God’s love that finally set him free. The same Grace that my father had so easily shared with all those around him throughout his life.
This Grace has stayed with us, and has even had the chance to impact the lives of those who never knew him, as his love and compassion has inspired the same in all those who’s lives he touched.
Ordinary Adventures 