How many of you remember the excitement of the phone ringing in your home? Running to answer it, not knowing who it was. Grandma? Grandpa? A boyfriend? Good news? Bad news? Whatever the news, a phone call meant something.
My dad and I had a very special relationship that continued into adulthood; he and my stepmom, Sheila, kept me grounded and sane through so many storms. So it was only natural they became my sounding boards and my shoulders to cry on...for anything. That was great of course unless I was too busy; Dad used to get after me constantly to call him more often. I’d roll my eyes and think, C'mon already does he think I don’t have my own life? He and Sheila are busy and have David and they work. Why does he want to hear about my life all the time? I write letters. I send photos of the grandkids and our house. What more does he want? It’s expensive to call so often!
(OK, for you kids born after 1985: Before there were cellular phones, there was this thing called "long distance." The phone company charged by the minute depending on distance from the caller. That is why there are area codes—those three numbers at the beginning of your phone number. Even after the introduction of cell phones, you had to be using the same carrier to be able to call for free, but it was only free during certain times).
Ok. Moving on.
Being the good daughter, and honestly out of excuses for not calling, I finally gave in and started calling him, infrequently at first, but eventually we decided to call on a set day at a set time: Sundays at eight p.m. For over forty years I called him like clockwork, sometimes he’d call me but I usually called him. In those forty plus years, I only missed three or four Sunday calls, even calling him from India, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and wherever the Air Force or our life took me. Of course we did not only call on Sundays; we would randomly call during the week (usually Dad would call and tell me about the weather or that he was bored). But, regardless if we just spoke on Saturday evening, it was understood we would still talk Sunday at eight p.m.; it was our sacred ritual.
Sometimes the calls were short, sometimes long, but they became something I looked forward to. We planned our dinner times and social events around those calls, sometimes rushing home to make sure I would be by the phone at eight p.m. (Thank goodness when cell phones were introduced; we could call from anywhere!) Don't misunderstand, though, the calls were not always pleasant. We’d argue, or we’d barely say a thing, but we always fixed it, usually that same night. Sometimes I dreaded calling him because I just didn’t feel like getting lectured about budgets or relationships. But the majority of the time I loved talking to my parents. They made me feel special, and loved, and wanted.
During these phone calls Dad would ask me the same questions he had asked me time and time again, like what I did in the military, or what was that commander’s name, and I never really knew if he actually forgot what I had told him the week before or if he just wanted to hear my voice. What he never forgot to say, though, was each and every time how proud he was of me and how much he and Sheila loved me. You’d be surprised how much hearing those words comforted me even at the age of 40, or 50 or 60.
But then in January 2018, at the age of 94, Dad was in stage four of COPD. His prostate cancer had spread into his pelvic bones, and his health steadily deteriorated. After watching him fight the good fight for ten months, Sheila relented and placed him on home hospice. I lived with them and helped care for him, and when I’d leave once a month to run home for a weekend, he’d say, gasping for air between each word, “Don’t forget to call Sunday!”
My last call to my dad was Sunday, December 2, 2018. I’d gone back home for the weekend. I called at eight o’clock and Sheila answered, telling me Dad was sleeping and she didn’t want to wake him. He could barely breathe that day so Sheila had given him some medicine to ease his breathing, and some morphine to ease the pain. Something didn’t feel quite right. I left home early Monday morning. When I arrived at their home, Sheila told me Dad woke up in the middle of the night and asked, “did Barbara call?” And although she assured him I had, it broke my heart that he didn’t get to hear my voice.
Three days later, early in the morning hours of December 6, 2018, Dad died.
That first year of Sundays following his death was brutal. At first I called as I always did when Dad was alive, and I’d talk to Sheila, the conversation invariably turning to how much we missed Dad. Usually though I was with Sheila, helping her sort out her life without Dad.
Then just when I began to get over the pain of missing those calls, Sheila died, and now both parents were gone. I hated 8 pm on Sundays. Many times I’d pick up my phone at eight p.m. but then I remembered he wasn’t there anymore. I can’t bear to hear the ringtone I assigned to Dad and Sheila—the motorcycle. Even five years later, I’m sitting here, tears rolling down my face, wishing I could call one more time and hear his voice, and Sheila’s voice, her hollering “Joseph it’s Barbara”, and Dad coming to the phone and picking up where we left off.
I saved many of their voicemails. I wish I had more. I listen to them sometimes to hear their voices again, to remember how much they loved me and how blessed I was to have parents who were always there. I have a DVD of him talking about his World War II service, something their church did during a veterans recognition week. I still cannot get up the nerve to watch it. I have home movies from 1965 on, and one day I’ll watch them. But not yet. I miss them. I really miss my dad.
Nowadays communication is via text or FaceBook message or WhatsApp. We call from the car, from work, from the bathroom, restaurants, sporting events, you name it. A phone call isn’t special anymore. It’s something to check off a list, to fit in when you have a few minutes to squeeze in, and it usually ends abruptly and unceremoniously (when another call comes in, the light changes, your dinner arrives, or, for whatever reason, because the caller has to go. “Gotta run!” If someone doesn’t want to talk when a call comes in they just press the ignore button. More than likely they’ll respond with a text or an emoji or some weird abbreviation.
I try to be focused on the person I’m talking to during phone calls, even during text or app chats. That’s the good thing about video chats. If you’re not paying attention it’s obvious. (I did try video chats with Dad. He never got the knack of fitting his whole face in the camera. I either saw his forehead or his nose or a hand when he held the phone wrong.)
The morale of the story: Invest time and effort in speaking with people who love you. Listen to their voices. Pay attention to their tone, their mood. Put everything else aside as much as humanly possible when you’re on the phone. Give them a peephole into your life. Laugh with them and share silly stories. Cry with them. Share your sorrows and disappointments. When they are gone, those memories will comfort you in your grief.
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