A little over a year ago, you were celebrating Thanksgiving here in our home, and like every other year before, showing mock disgust at how Alex carved the turkey. We shared a wonderful time with Alex's mom and brother, and talked about doing it again the following Thanksgiving. But when we said goodbye that weekend, I knew in my heart it was the beginning of a long and painful goodbye, and I knew neither you nor my sweet mother-in-law would ever grace our table again. Less than two months later, a panicked phone call from Sheila--you were in an ambulance enroute to the hospital. I drove out and picked up David, moved him in with us, and then spent the next several weeks preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the final goodbye, spending time with you, laughing with you, praying with you, reliving so many memories--oh so many memories. Memories that kept popping into my head at odd times, appearing more frequently every time I had to say goodbye. Each time I left to go back home, I feared that goodbye would be my last. But then miraculously (or stubbornly), you seemed to get better--you were back up, walking around, cutting the grass, even imbibing in your daily "martini" by the summer. We visited frequently, and there were a couple more scares, but when we would say goodbye I felt a little better about it. Until two weeks ago--as soon as I saw you, I knew the final goodbye was not long off.
Memories...it would take a lifetime to capture them all--simple yet seemingly inconsequential moments. A trip to Frisch’s Big Boy after I broke my arm riding my friend’s bike; eating cotton candy at the annual St Williams fall carnival. The annual excursions to Coney Island, accompanied by your customary “oh no I forgot the tickets" and the wonderful picnic lunches we shared in the picnic grounds there--Sheila's awesome potato salad, fried chicken, and iced tea. Dancing in the basement to Mary Poppins. Showing you my report card and beaming when you hugged me and said how proud you were. Car rides to Florida every summer, visiting every tourist attraction along the way--and taking movies of every single one, panning the camera over the historic marker signs as if the camera was reading the signs, and perching all five of us kids precariously on the top of some rickety old monument to pose for photos. Our weekend visits with you made more special by bakery treats from Aunt Teresa, and visits from Uncle Ed and Aunt Ginny, followed by the obligatory poker games in the basement. The speeding tickets, and oh my the trouble I got into driving the car, you feigning belief in my cockamamie stories; the way you made my best friend Jenny laugh hysterically when you suggested we buy sheep to cut our grass. You driving to Cleveland to help me move back home, towing my broken down car. Advising against obviously bad decisions yet being supportive and understanding when I foolishly ignored your advice. Taking inventory in your drugstore and being amazed that you could look at huge bottles of pills and accurately predict the quantities in each one. Walking me down the aisle at my wedding even though your knees were killing you. The childlike wonder and excitement you showed whenever I would explain what I did in the Air Force, especially when you’d get to see, touch, and yes, even ride in the aircraft. The overwhelming look of pride on your face and in your voice at my every accomplishment, your sincere interest in everything I did, your quiet understanding when I just needed to vent. Sharing holidays and mundane moments with me and our family, your special bonds with my children, and my children’s children, accompanied by your perennial affirmation that you had never changed a diaper.
Helping me through the hard times, the hardships, the trials and tribulations, moves across country and deployments and separations from family. Listening, always listening--not always understanding, mind you--but always listening. Letting me sort it out, letting me think out loud. Asking the tough questions, the ones you knew I was avoiding. Not always agreeing with me, or placating me, but respecting my individuality and my way of doing things (even if your way was the only "right" way). Discussing money, finances, politics, and religion--nothing seemed to be off limits. And of course, the Sunday phone calls. At 8:00 pm, every Sunday for so many years I've lost track. Those phone calls were our lifeline to each other, so much so that if I could not call we both felt lost. Heck, even if I just saw you Sunday morning, if we were in different area codes, a phone call the day before or a recent visit did not count as the Sunday call. We would talk for 2 minutes or an hour--it didn't matter--as long as we reached out and heard the other's voice. There were other calls during the week (especially since I retired), and some were quite humorous; you'd leave voicemails that you were bored, that it was sunny out, or tell me what you had for lunch. Nothing though took the place of Sunday calls. Yet over the past several weeks, you were too sick to talk, sometimes too sick to even hear me. Sheila told me though that you would wake with a start on those Sundays, and sadly say, "Barbara didn't call...isn't it Sunday?" Last Sunday I called--we spoke very briefly--and when I said goodbye, I love you, I felt a deep ache in my heart. The next day, I was on my way to see you...this time, I knew it was for the last time. You didn't even know I was there for two days, and by the time you realized I was there, it was time for me to go home. You were sleeping peacefully, so I kissed your head and held your hand and whispered "Goodbye Dad. I love you. Talk to you next Sunday."
Such a long long goodbye...the past eleven months. From January 3rd until December 6, I have been struggling to say goodbye. To let go and let you go to God.
God be with ye....
Godbwye....
Goodbye
Until the eternal hello
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