No, i'm not getting all blue. I've just been thinking. It's what I do...think. I recently went to the funeral of one of my friends dad's. He committed suicide. It wasn't a good scene. It was very akward, maybe because of the suddenness of it. Maybe because it was kind of like when a child dies, it's so sudden, so unexpected. I felt really awkard and terrible being there. Their family was always good friends of our family. The moms were friends, the older sister was best friends with my older sister Amy. The younger sister was best friends with my little sis Abby. And it was all awful, as can be expected. And even though the question of "why?" was on everyone's mind, it was a question that wasn't asked, and really shouldn't have been asked there. And the answer is never easy when it comes to suicide. The only answer is that he felt like he wasn't worthy of this world any longer. And how badly he must have felt in the days and months and even years leading up to this. Poor Steve. He had a world of hurt in his head, for whatever reason, and his choice shows us all how bad it really was. That's a hell of a choice he made. I feel badly for what he went through, and worse for what his family is now going through. And always in times of death, we always draw on our own experiences with the matter. And that's what's got me thinking of my Pop's funeral.
My dad got sick and died over about six weeks time. It was awful. But I learned so much about life and love in that time. I'm thankful that some very wise friends told me to make sure that I made it a point to tell my Pop that I loved him before he passed. I did. Many times. And a few times he told me he loved me too. I will always be grateful for the advise and for the times that I was heard and that he was able to reciprocate. Even those time in the end, when it was like talking to a bed with a stranger in it, I am grateful.
But the day of Pops funeral was a day I'll never forget. I'd been working in radio advertising sales for several years at the time. Downtowner was my day job. But traveling north to Hamilton daily was a haul. But every trip to see him was worth it. And I thank those guys I worked for at the time so much, for the flexibility to tend to this awful matter. I loved that job, but would've most likely quit at the time, just to spend the most time with my Pop at the end that I could.
I've told you in previous posts about my dad. I have a piece that I haven't posted yet. Something I wrote last year that will eventually wind up here on this blog. But today I am thinking about the actual funeral. Funerals are always tough. People show up that you haven't seen or heard from in years, decades, lifetimes. And you mill about until you have to form the formal line for folks to greet you, give you their respects. The one on one is tough at first but then it gets a little routine. You actually end up trying to make the people in line feel better. It's weird. And some people want to talk and tell you how they knew your dad, and tell you funny stories or how your dad inspired them or how he helped them save their jobs or how they only came to work because he brightened their day. Some girls from dad's office, from way back said they thought dad was scary because they used to see him standing outside smoking his smokes. But then they'd realized he was just a big puppy dog. And so it went.
But the day itself was weird. I didn't want to go, didn't want to deal with it. But like a good Lutheran boy, I knew I had to go. And there really wasn't a choice in the matter. It's part of life, and the gravity of the situation is as strong as anything anyone will ever have to deal with. I put on my dark gray suit with light gray pinstripes, a white button down and a black tie. I remember sweating the beers from the night before as I buttoned my shirt, and my hands shaking slightly as I looked in the mirror tying my tie. I think that was the toughest tie I've ever tied, and i got it right on the first try. And my shoes were polished the night before, and I think I looked the part. And I don't remember why, I think it was work stuff, but I was running late, and when I got to my Mom's to ride to the church with my family, they'd already taken off. They assumed that I'd gone straight to the church. And so I broke from my mom's porch at a dead sprint, and flew in the Honda to the church. And I got there, not late, and got together with my mom and sisters. And still I was sweating, not wanting to keep my coat on, but sticking with it nevertheless. And I assumed the male role of the pride, and became a man again, and tried to put on a strong face. But maybe I should go back to the night he died.
I'd been at hospice most of the day, and made phone calls to the close family members to tell them that it was time to come and say goodbye to Pop. "Now is the time to come say goodbye, he may not last through the night" I'd told them. The Reds were on the radio in the nurses' station when I made the calls. I could barely hear, and I can't tell you a thing about the game. But knowing the Reds were on, gave my surreal day a touch of much needed normalcy. Later, I'd gone home to rest, knowing that I might have seen my dad alive for the last time. I'd kissed him, held his hand and told him I loved him many times that day. And I really knew it was the last time, but I'd left anyhow. Sisters Amy and Abby were with him. And around eleven, Amy called and said "he's gone". And I made the drive back, listening to the Reds post game show as I went. And when I got there, I became a man. For the first time, I was the man of the family. I walked into the room, and mom was in a chair by his bed. He was still there, but he was gone, and looked it. Mom looked at me and said "He's gone Joe, he's gone". And I went to her and hugged her for a long time. I wouldn't let myself cry. When I felt I could let her go, I turned to my family, and they were all in a semi circle around me and the bed. I hugged Amy, then Abby, then Abby's husband JP. I felt like I had a handle on the room. And I did what I could to try to be manly. I was the man of the family at this point, and it would never change again. I felt for the moment that I was the man. I have no idea what I looked like to them, but I feel I was holding it together. A few minutes later we watched as the funeral home men lifted Pop from his bed, and placed him on his gurney, and draped him in a heavy, white sheet. I was the man now. I didn't cry. And we all went to our respective sleeping places where I'm sure we all had a stiff drink or two, and that was it for the night.
And so back to the church, for his memorial service. I was wearing my power suit, with my black tie, and was burning up. Our family was sitting in the front row, and we were looking straight up at the pulpit in front of us. And I knew that the entire congregation was sitting behinde me, and that I should be sitting up straight. And I did, for a bit. But the preacher was saying so much about dad, so many good things, bringing up all his accomplishments, and his lifetime achievements, it was getting to me. So like a good strong Lutheran boy, I tried to hide it, but I dabbed at my eyes with the back of my hand. And the sweat was gathering on my forehead, and I'd wipe it away with that same hand. Then I felt myself start to slouch, start to slide down in the pew a bit. And I couldn't help myself. I was down in the pew, still sitting upright, but feet spread apart on the floor, looking up at the preacher, trying not to bawl, trying not to pass out. And I feel I remained that way for some time. Not passed out, not unconscious, not bawling. But my posture was that of a defeated man. Toward the end of the service I started to get it together, started to regain my sense of self. And I sat up, inquired about my sisters and my mom. And was again the man of the family. But for fifteen or twenty minutes, I was a boy who'd lost his dad, and I couldn't break free, no matter what my rational self told me. The service ended shortly thereafter.
And at the funeral home, where they treated us like royalty, I was strong, confident and in control. And I helped those around me that needed help. I made those that were feeling weak feel better. And I kept my mom's spirits up, and hopefully my sisters' too. And everything went the way it was supposed to. What a hellish experience. How terrible my mom felt. I think that her kids were the only thing that got her through it. I'd like to say that I can't imagine her loss, but I can. But I'd become the man of the family at that point. And I tried to make my parents proud that day. I think I did. I hope I did.
That day is a day I don't wish on anyone. Unfortunately most of us have to go through it. It's an awful day, and an awful experience. But I've grown because of it. And I assume that the way it goes depends on your position in the pride. I had no choice, I was the man of the family. On certain days I feel like the man, and on other days, I feel like the boy that lost his dad. But most of the time, I feel like the son who had a great Dad that he lost too soon. That's okay. That's life. Without death there is no life. And I feel stronger for it. Dear reader, this day will come for you, or already has. All I can tell you is that the loss of a parent, sibling or spouse must be the hardest thing we deal with. But life does in fact go on and on. And now, five years later, it's still tough, but I've gained a huge sense of who I am because of it. It's a monumental occasion, one that we don't look forward to, but one that is inevitable. I say define the moment or the moment will define you. Cherish today, make the most of today, and make sure you show up on the big days. The big days are what you'll remember. The big days are the ones that I remember.
My dad got sick and died over about six weeks time. It was awful. But I learned so much about life and love in that time. I'm thankful that some very wise friends told me to make sure that I made it a point to tell my Pop that I loved him before he passed. I did. Many times. And a few times he told me he loved me too. I will always be grateful for the advise and for the times that I was heard and that he was able to reciprocate. Even those time in the end, when it was like talking to a bed with a stranger in it, I am grateful.
But the day of Pops funeral was a day I'll never forget. I'd been working in radio advertising sales for several years at the time. Downtowner was my day job. But traveling north to Hamilton daily was a haul. But every trip to see him was worth it. And I thank those guys I worked for at the time so much, for the flexibility to tend to this awful matter. I loved that job, but would've most likely quit at the time, just to spend the most time with my Pop at the end that I could.
I've told you in previous posts about my dad. I have a piece that I haven't posted yet. Something I wrote last year that will eventually wind up here on this blog. But today I am thinking about the actual funeral. Funerals are always tough. People show up that you haven't seen or heard from in years, decades, lifetimes. And you mill about until you have to form the formal line for folks to greet you, give you their respects. The one on one is tough at first but then it gets a little routine. You actually end up trying to make the people in line feel better. It's weird. And some people want to talk and tell you how they knew your dad, and tell you funny stories or how your dad inspired them or how he helped them save their jobs or how they only came to work because he brightened their day. Some girls from dad's office, from way back said they thought dad was scary because they used to see him standing outside smoking his smokes. But then they'd realized he was just a big puppy dog. And so it went.
But the day itself was weird. I didn't want to go, didn't want to deal with it. But like a good Lutheran boy, I knew I had to go. And there really wasn't a choice in the matter. It's part of life, and the gravity of the situation is as strong as anything anyone will ever have to deal with. I put on my dark gray suit with light gray pinstripes, a white button down and a black tie. I remember sweating the beers from the night before as I buttoned my shirt, and my hands shaking slightly as I looked in the mirror tying my tie. I think that was the toughest tie I've ever tied, and i got it right on the first try. And my shoes were polished the night before, and I think I looked the part. And I don't remember why, I think it was work stuff, but I was running late, and when I got to my Mom's to ride to the church with my family, they'd already taken off. They assumed that I'd gone straight to the church. And so I broke from my mom's porch at a dead sprint, and flew in the Honda to the church. And I got there, not late, and got together with my mom and sisters. And still I was sweating, not wanting to keep my coat on, but sticking with it nevertheless. And I assumed the male role of the pride, and became a man again, and tried to put on a strong face. But maybe I should go back to the night he died.
I'd been at hospice most of the day, and made phone calls to the close family members to tell them that it was time to come and say goodbye to Pop. "Now is the time to come say goodbye, he may not last through the night" I'd told them. The Reds were on the radio in the nurses' station when I made the calls. I could barely hear, and I can't tell you a thing about the game. But knowing the Reds were on, gave my surreal day a touch of much needed normalcy. Later, I'd gone home to rest, knowing that I might have seen my dad alive for the last time. I'd kissed him, held his hand and told him I loved him many times that day. And I really knew it was the last time, but I'd left anyhow. Sisters Amy and Abby were with him. And around eleven, Amy called and said "he's gone". And I made the drive back, listening to the Reds post game show as I went. And when I got there, I became a man. For the first time, I was the man of the family. I walked into the room, and mom was in a chair by his bed. He was still there, but he was gone, and looked it. Mom looked at me and said "He's gone Joe, he's gone". And I went to her and hugged her for a long time. I wouldn't let myself cry. When I felt I could let her go, I turned to my family, and they were all in a semi circle around me and the bed. I hugged Amy, then Abby, then Abby's husband JP. I felt like I had a handle on the room. And I did what I could to try to be manly. I was the man of the family at this point, and it would never change again. I felt for the moment that I was the man. I have no idea what I looked like to them, but I feel I was holding it together. A few minutes later we watched as the funeral home men lifted Pop from his bed, and placed him on his gurney, and draped him in a heavy, white sheet. I was the man now. I didn't cry. And we all went to our respective sleeping places where I'm sure we all had a stiff drink or two, and that was it for the night.
And so back to the church, for his memorial service. I was wearing my power suit, with my black tie, and was burning up. Our family was sitting in the front row, and we were looking straight up at the pulpit in front of us. And I knew that the entire congregation was sitting behinde me, and that I should be sitting up straight. And I did, for a bit. But the preacher was saying so much about dad, so many good things, bringing up all his accomplishments, and his lifetime achievements, it was getting to me. So like a good strong Lutheran boy, I tried to hide it, but I dabbed at my eyes with the back of my hand. And the sweat was gathering on my forehead, and I'd wipe it away with that same hand. Then I felt myself start to slouch, start to slide down in the pew a bit. And I couldn't help myself. I was down in the pew, still sitting upright, but feet spread apart on the floor, looking up at the preacher, trying not to bawl, trying not to pass out. And I feel I remained that way for some time. Not passed out, not unconscious, not bawling. But my posture was that of a defeated man. Toward the end of the service I started to get it together, started to regain my sense of self. And I sat up, inquired about my sisters and my mom. And was again the man of the family. But for fifteen or twenty minutes, I was a boy who'd lost his dad, and I couldn't break free, no matter what my rational self told me. The service ended shortly thereafter.
And at the funeral home, where they treated us like royalty, I was strong, confident and in control. And I helped those around me that needed help. I made those that were feeling weak feel better. And I kept my mom's spirits up, and hopefully my sisters' too. And everything went the way it was supposed to. What a hellish experience. How terrible my mom felt. I think that her kids were the only thing that got her through it. I'd like to say that I can't imagine her loss, but I can. But I'd become the man of the family at that point. And I tried to make my parents proud that day. I think I did. I hope I did.
That day is a day I don't wish on anyone. Unfortunately most of us have to go through it. It's an awful day, and an awful experience. But I've grown because of it. And I assume that the way it goes depends on your position in the pride. I had no choice, I was the man of the family. On certain days I feel like the man, and on other days, I feel like the boy that lost his dad. But most of the time, I feel like the son who had a great Dad that he lost too soon. That's okay. That's life. Without death there is no life. And I feel stronger for it. Dear reader, this day will come for you, or already has. All I can tell you is that the loss of a parent, sibling or spouse must be the hardest thing we deal with. But life does in fact go on and on. And now, five years later, it's still tough, but I've gained a huge sense of who I am because of it. It's a monumental occasion, one that we don't look forward to, but one that is inevitable. I say define the moment or the moment will define you. Cherish today, make the most of today, and make sure you show up on the big days. The big days are what you'll remember. The big days are the ones that I remember.
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