A Tribute

I have been struggling all week with what I should write about next in this blog. In my document folder, I have a file named “Topics” for posts I’d like to write. I may be partial, but there are some good ones there. No. I won’t share them with you now because if they don’t turn out well, I don’t want to be accused of unwarranted hype.

At the moment, though, none of the topics appeal to me. I may be going through the black hole known as “writer’s block.” But I think the malady might better be described as a “blue funk.”

Friday is the third anniversary of my father’s death. In 2007, he passed away on August 20th from a massive stroke. His funeral was the following Saturday. Two weeks after he died, on September 3rd, my mom passed away. She had been struggling for over a decade with the devastating effects of dementia and on the following Saturday, we buried her.

To call those three weeks the worst extended period of my adult life is the biggest understatement I could ever make. In that short period of time, my life changed dramatically and yet, somehow, stood still, all at the same time. And so, I’ve found my topic for the week. I’ve learned that the art of writing can aid in the healing process and, in an attempt to do so, I offer this short tribute.

My mother and father were decent, hardworking people. Both were born in 1920. They lived through The Great Depression. They were both twelve years old when Franklin Delano Roosevelt became President for the first time and twenty-four years old when he died. He brought the country through the depression and guided the country through World War II. My mother remembered feeling like she’d lost a member of her family when he passed away.

They were exceptional examples of the true meaning of the Catholic faith and all it embraced. Their religion meant a great deal to both of them. They truly practiced what they preached. They were married in 1941, just fifteen days after the attack on Pearl Harbor. When my dad died, they had been married for sixty-six years. They believed in the power of their commitment and they honored it every day.

My father was more conservative than I remembered. In my liberal youth, I was appalled that my own father voted for Nixon over Kennedy in 1960. When I voted in my first election, I chose to support McGovern in 1972. My dad tried to tell me what a mistake I was making. In 1974, when the Nixon presidency collapsed under the weight of Watergate, I smugly told my father, “You see. I was right!” Our ideologies never ran in the same direction, but I think he was proud that I at least had one.

They didn’t grow up with television, much less cable, the internet or iTunes. My dad was content with the handful of stations that came through his television set with rabbit ears configured in a myriad of positions. He listened to his vinyl albums. He contacted family and friends through the lost art of letter writing or by telephone. My dad wasn’t interested in computers. My mother, on the other hand, worked at IBM when this technological marvel was in its infancy. The computer revolution was just beginning to hit its stride when her health began its slow, steady and painful decline. I believe she would have been fascinated with all the computer age had to offer.

I wrote a piece about my mother for her high school’s alumni magazine, but it never got printed. But my dad, like most fathers would, thought the piece was wonderful. He said to me, “I wonder what you could have done if we’d been able to send you to college.” He seemed sad when he said it, as though he had let me down. When I tried to tell him that I could have gone to college if I’d really wanted to, it didn’t seem to ease his mind.

His comment started me wondering if I’d let him down. At the time I was a secretary (just a secretary, as some of us in the field referred to it). I didn’t own a house or a car. I hadn’t given him a boatload of Catholic grandchildren. I wasn’t even married.

One day, we took a day trip to Gettysburg. As we walked around that hallowed place, my emotions got the better of me and tears began welling up. I remember apologizing to him. He said, “You don’t need to apologize. You’re crying because you feel things. Because you’re moved by the events that took place here. It makes me feel good, because I had some little part in making you that way.”

And that’s why I miss him so much today. This good man, with simple needs, took great pleasure in everything God had given him. My dad wasn’t impressed by material things. The gifts he had were on a much higher level. His faith, his family and his dog were the things he cherished most.

He was my mother’s primary caregiver until the last two years of his life when his own health was on shaky ground. Although he was visibly frustrated in the early days of her illness, over the years, I was amazed at the patience that seemed to grow ever stronger. He never looked at it as a trial or a burden. He was just doing his job; what he’d promised to do when they got married. He took care of her.

He was a treasured cousin, a faithful friend, and a good neighbor. His faith sustained him. His humor defined him. And the three years since that horrible day have not diminished his importance to my life or the emptiness he left behind. But maybe the pain of his loss should never fade. Pain follows when recalling a memory of him. And those memories are what keep him alive in my heart.

I realize the focus of this post is mainly on my father. This isn’t intended to minimize the loss of my mother or the significant role she played in my life. As she became more deeply entrenched into the prison of dementia, it became harder for me to deal with her past and her present. I still find myself more obsessed with what could have been than with what actually was. That part of the healing process is ongoing and is something I will address here later. Right now, that place is still too painful for me to visit. Yet she, too, was greatly loved and is greatly missed.

I would give anything to have my mom and dad here with me today. But I am eternally grateful for being blessed to have them as my parents. And I can only hope they felt blessed to have me as their child.