I can't tell you how often Judi and Rosie and Susan and I say to each other "thank goodness Dad wasn't alive for this, because he probably wouldn't have lived through it and would have died alone." As much as we would have wanted you with us longer, we'd never wish that on you.
So, Dad, now that you're gone...I want to thank you again for all that you did to make things easier for me after you left. The contents of that battered metal box and the yellow legal pad you kept drilling me with were the perfect executor tools. You told me, week after week, "I'm worried you're going to have too much to do" because I was the caretaker kid, and you knew that I would be doing most of the work to empty and sell the house and close out your accounts and disburse funds among us girls.
You made that as easy as you could, Dad - in fact, of all the loving things you did, that may have been the most love-filled, because over and over again I saw in your preparations how well you'd thought everything out.
Even the week you decided to stop dialysis and we knew your days were numbered, you handed me a calendar with June 20 circled on it, and it said "If the house is not sold by now, you need to pay <XX>." I still have that calendar somewhere. I couldn't throw it away - it was so YOU.
Still, there are some things I wish I'd asked you during all those evenings I'd sit working while you watched TV. Why didn't I find out more about you as a young man? Why didn't I ask more about Grandma and Grandpa, and more about how you and Mom were as a young couple, other than that you walked up to her in her fur coat after the photography class you both took with a cheesy pickup line: "Is your chauffeur picking you up?" Oh, I also know that you gave her an ironing board for her first birthday with you, which seems an odd gift, but Mom said you told her that's when you knew you wanted to marry her, and you got the ironing board because it was something you'd need when you set up house together. Always thinking, Dad! And always frugal.
I wish I'd gotten to know you well before you got cancer. That was a turning point for you and I, because our relationship was a bit contentious before that. But when you got sick, and we were told it was life-threatening, you chose the hardest but most probable path to a longer life - removing an organ, which changed everything for you, and I remember standing outside the bathroom asking if I could help you while you sobbed in frustration behind that door until you learned how to manage your ostomy. Gosh, you were made of such strong stuff. And then later, when you had kicked cancer's ass but got kidney disease, and changed your life again so you could live... you humbled me with your determination and stoicism. You weren't perfect, but you were perfect for us, and my sisters and I are proud to take your spirit, your kindness, your intelligence (and your quirks) forward in our own lives.
And on this Father's Day, I want to thank you for continuing to show up. You know what I mean: how you used to look for 88 on license plates with me because I told you it was my lucky number, and now I swear I see 88 everywhere, and when I do I say "hi Dad" out loud if I'm alone, and I just think it if I'm not.
Sending you a big 88, Dad. Right out loud.
© 2020 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
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