He called me on a Wednesday, and I could hear the tears and fear in his voice as soon as he spoke. We’d been in regular touch about his recent health issues and doctor visits. I’d been concerned that it was something a little serious. I had no idea it could be as bad as it was.
He broke the news: The stomach problems he’d been having were pancreatic cancer. He’d been given six months to live. I was his first call.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it, the world spinning, my heart reeling. I felt like my mind, body, and soul were short-circuiting, like some horrifying out-of-body experience where I could see myself from above but each piece of me was shattered. Still, somehow he eased me through my horrified initial shock. And it was then that I saw how scared he was, of dying, sure, but mostly of hurting us, his children.
Even though for years he’d told me he was okay with his own death, I could tell the finality of saying goodbye to the world and people he loved so purely, with so much zest and zeal, hurt him to his core. But he made no mention of it. He was focused on what this news would do to each of his kids. He knew he’d to have to tell each of us, one by one, that we were going to lose our dad. In a life with its share of difficult moments, it was the scariest and hardest thing he’d ever had to do, and he didn’t know if he could find the courage to make each call. I quickly realized that, despite still reeling at the shock, I had to pull myself together and be there for him. I reached down as deeply as I could and gave to him all the love and encouragement I could muster for him to call my siblings. They were going to need him then.
The first time I saw him after we found out, he met me at my house, and we rode together to my sister’s for her, and all of his grandchildren’s, first time seeing him after knowing. As I drove, I found my hand reaching over to cup his knee just like he always did on mine when I was a kid, needing to touch him, affirming he was still there, knowing he wouldn’t be soon, perhaps comforting him like he’d comforted me as a child, just by being there, but needing to hold him somehow to comfort myself as well. When we pulled up in front of my sister’s house, he reached down and grabbed my hand.
“You were always such a joy,” he said.
I teared up immediately.
“You were just such a joy to have in my life. I always loved spending time with you so much. You were always just such a gift to have in my life.”
I couldn’t muster a word in return but started to cry vigorously.
“Do you see what a gift we have?” he said.
A gift?! What the hell kind of gift it this?! I thought as my eyes shot straight to his. He met my gaze, understood it, and I watched his eyes as they responded through a series of emotions that told me words beyond what his mouth could: “Yeah, buddy, I know it’s hard; and I’m scared as hell, too, but we have to focus on the good. That’s all we have.”
And so we did; we focused on good, on what we had, instead of what we didn’t.
We only ended up only having six more weeks with him. But we spent as much time together as we could. We took those walks and had those conversations we’d always wanted. We explored a place he’d always wanted to go. I got to see his massive hands on delicate flowers—this time a rare species of shooting stars that grew on a hillside across from the family farm—one more time. We had one last fishing trip. We talked about whether it’s easier to know and have that time, or easier to have it just happen one day. We decided we preferred to know and have the time.
Then, it was over, and he was forever gone from here.
It never gets that much easier. I still want to call him all the time and get his advice about peony transplanting and every other gardening thing under the sun, even if I might already know most of it. I still want him to show up and steal three-quarters of my sedum under the pretense of it needing to be divided, just because he’s so enamored with its coloration. I want to see his huge hands holding a peony flower as he admires it under his full-faced smile, finally putting it to his nose, his eyes lighting up with wonder each time at the beauty and intoxicating smell, each instance as if it were his first time experiencing it—and hear the excitement in his voice as he entreats me to do the same.
“Ahhhhh!,” taking it from his nose and holding out the flower to me, “Smell it!” he’d say. “Isn’t it amazing!”
I want him to remind me to notice, to be looking in wonder at the thousands of dragonflies zinging around an opening in the canopy or the subtle beauty and coloration of a tiny flower I’d failed to even see. I want to see him walk around our new place, hands touching each flower, tree branch, and bud, and watch his eyes well with pride. I want to see him look to our mountains and see him settle back a little in peace and tranquility. I want to experience a little more of the world with him, and hear his voice tell me that he’s happy for me no matter what I do as long as I’m happy but know that, underneath all that, he’s brimming with pride at the man I’ve become.
I want all of that, but the fact that I can so clearly imagine all of it, let’s you know I had plenty of it. His was a spirit of giving, if often imperfectly done at times. He was someone who’d take in stray people, who found gold where others found only waste (oh, the sawdust we carried) and saw immense and deep beauty where others saw nothing at all, and who couldn’t help but beam his enthusiasm for plants (and birds, insects, rocks…the world and life around him, in general) to everyone else around him.
I once spent a day on a cobble-filled beach with him, noticing stones, each with its own subtle or dramatic beauty, and him detailedly describing each one.
“This one reminds me of Jen,” he said brightly. “It’s just so bright, happy, and colorful it makes me smile.”
He ended up carrying a banana box full of bowling-ball-sized rocks off that beach in his massive hands, noticeably weighing down the van on the way home.
I want him to have been there when I took my sister, brother-in-law, and nieces to the same beach to share its splendor with them. I want him to have seen how, strangely enough, unsolicited, never having heard the story of their grandpa’s capers there, each of his granddaughters carried a stone too precious to leave behind yet bigger than her own head off of that same beach, just like their grandpa. Somehow they hold his spirit to tote large winsome rocks off of beaches—beauties to be shipped home to later transport their carriers back to that splendid day and remind them to notice, to be present for all of the majesty that is unveiled each day.
Of course, I’d take another day, but mostly, I try to focus on what we had instead of what we didn’t and what I have in each day instead of what I don’t.
Without him here, it’d be easy for me to sit here selfishly guarding his memories, keeping them tucked away inside me for no one else to see. But his was a better example than that. He was better than that. Those lessons aren’t mine to hold but mine to share. And the love and enthusiasm it passes to others continue spreading back around to us all as/if it’s given away.
I love you, dad. And thank you.
