1 post tagged “death”
It's been a month now since my dad passed away, and I think I have enough objectivity to be able to write something up here. This won't be a comprehensive account of his life or what he means to me... just a brief note so that I can refer others when the item comes up in conversation.
Dad made it to the ripe old age of 90. He was suffering in the past few years, but not medically advanced to the point where the VA would let him enter their full-time care facilities. (He dressed himself, and got around slowly with a walker and electric scooter, but he didn't prepare his own food any more.) However, I spent a lot of my time (and some of my money) to make sure he was happy.
He had lived in a house in Lincoln City, a few hours drive from me on the Oregon coast. He'd been there for over 30 years, from shortly after the time of separating from my Mom after they got married to each other for the second time (and that's a story in itself). Even at age 75 and beyond, he was running around town installing UHF antennas on people's roofs, to get "free tv" and get away from paying the ubiquitous cable bill. (It's ironic that those UHF antennas will all be going dark shortly.)
He had taken in the company of other women during those 30 years (mostly young mothers, because he liked the kids), but had spent the last few years lonely and alone, after the last woman left. Tragically, two of his sons (who lived nearby) from the wife before my mother also passed away in these past few years. It's not right that a man buries his own child, but to do it twice in a short period only compounds the pain.
In an effort to bring him closer by to medical aid and constant supervision, I moved him from his home on the coast to a residential care facility near me. I had hoped that he would make friends, and regain the companionship that he had lost by no longer being able to work, but he eventually ended up hating the change, and cried to be returned to his home on the coast, which I did a few months later.
When he moved back to the coast a year ago, I ensured that he was visited (at my expense) twice a week by a nurse, and I also arranged for Andy (a long-time local friend of Dad's) to live in the spare bedroom to keep an eye on Dad when Andy wasn't at work. Andy put up with quite a lot in exchange for his free room and board, but did it with a kind heart and soul. Very moving.
I was able to get down to see Dad only a few times this past year. I noticed on each visit that he was getting more forgetful, more demented, more frail, more ghostly. Just before his 90th birthday, Mom and my brother Russ and I drove down to see him to wish him a happy birthday. Unfortunately, I couldn't make it down on the exact day, so I had to make do with a phone call.
The next visit was Mom, Russ and I again, this time on Thanksgiving Day. As it was quite a production to take Dad anywhere, and his food had to be entirely liquified these days, we didn't take him out, but just visited with him for an hour. He was looking bad enough that I didn't even take any pictures, because I didn't want to remember him looking that way. As always, he was in tears to see us, happy that we kept coming back, and happy for everything that I was continuing to do for him.
He kept asking when he was going to get his driver's license back (which had been taken away two years earlier for failing a mental competency test) so that he could drive around to his favorite places in town. Andy and Mom and I exchanged knowing glances that this could never possibly be the case, so we just replied by smiling and changing the subject.
As we drove away, I was saddened by Dad's current condition, wishing I could do more for him, and feeling helpless in the combination of my broken arm, the broken economy, and a messed-up government system that hadn't recognized that Dad needed more immediate care now. We stopped at the Burger King for lunch... not exactly traditional Thanksgiving food, but expedient and available and reasonably priced.
It was Andy who called me a few weeks later, at 10am on Christmas Day. "Your dad... I found him on his bedroom floor this morning when he didn't come to breakfast." I listened to Andy describe what he could about what he had done since then, and got Andy to give the officer nearby my contact information. I sat and sobbed for a few minutes, then called Mom in Olympia. I gave her the officer's phone number, and she and my other brother Ron handled most of the practical details from there. (Ron had recently dealt with the death of his father-in-law, so I knew he'd have more of the process fresh in his mind.)
This was also particularly rough for Mom because her brother Earl (my closest Uncle) had passed away just a few weeks earlier. We had seen Earl together (at a nursing home nearby) when Mom had come down to visit Dad for Thanksgiving, and Earl too had passed away shortly after. Earl had been like a second father to me when I started my career, although I hadn't had much contact with him in the past few years.
I said I wasn't going to make this long, but I wanted to get the events of the past few months written down while it was fresh in my mind. I'm writing up a longer version in preparation for a spreading of the ashes sometime in the next few months when I can get the extended family together. At Dad's request, we'll spread his ashes somewhere in the Columbia Gorge, the most beautiful area in the world, as soon as I figure out how to do it legally and with respect.
I do want to make it very clear though, to all comers. Everything I am about my insatiable curiosity and work stamina and honesty and integrity started with my father and the lessons he taught me as I was growing up. I owe my life to him, today and always. And in return, I know that I turned out good, because he would remind me each time we met, "Son, I'm damn proud of you".
Dad, I'm damn proud of you too. Thank you for my life. I'm sad that you're gone now, but happy that you're suffering less today than you did a month ago. And you'll always be a part of the stories I tell, of the legend of my father, the great Ray Schwartz. Goodbye, Dad.
