This post isn’t about writing.
It’s about loss.
It’s been eight days since my father died quietly and quickly. In the ten minutes from the time my mom called to say he had a rattle (the death rattle was one we’d watched for in the last few months) and I’d called back to see if the hospice nurse was there yet, he passed without fanfare.
That’s how he lived his life. Quietly. Happy to be on the periphery. Never one to want nor care for a spotlight on him.
It’s also how he wanted to be laid to rest. No fanfare. Definitely no visitation. He’d told us numerous times over the years “If they can’t visit me when I’m alive, I sure as hell don’t want them staring down at me when I’m dead!”
He got his wish.
But a no-frills receiving of friends and family in church, then a service and private burial does not mean he didn’t have a wonderful goodbye.
In a simple church in western PA, the same one where we kids had our first communions, our confirmations, and one wedding, his urn sat. Beautiful blue marble with an anchor engraved in gold, along with the letters U.S.N. Since he’d stopped talking about a burial at sea, common for Navy veterans, this was a good alternative.
The priest, who’d known him for a few months, spoke from his heart. He nailed it.
The hymns had everyone in tears. I couldn’t sing the last one. I just couldn’t.
His ashes were carried out in a wood-and-glass arc-of-the-covenant style case. The grandsons and my son-in-law carried him. It seemed fitting — he’d carried all of them in one way or another over the years.
Outside, the skies had opened up. Amid a drenching downpour, an honor guard gave him a 21-gun salute. When the bugler played taps, we all wept.
Just the family followed to the cemetery, where the young priest once again led us in saying goodbye to a man who in the end had given his life (his lungs were ruined from welding and asbestos from Navy duty) so that his children would thrive.
And now we go about the task of doing without. Without his incredible, knee-jerk humor. Without his patient way of teaching through doing. Without his scent and presence and mannerisms. I must live without my fishing buddy, my confidant, and my true North. The neighbor in Ontario captured the photo above as he was heading back home. I came across it last week, and it comforted us all. We all hope he’s in his favorite place, where quiet enveloped him. Just as he’d always loved.
Loss is hard. Living with that loss is even harder.
Rest in peace, Pap.
11 responses to “The Days of Doing Without”
This is simply beautiful, Lori. I’m so sorry for your loss. My dad died nearly 20 years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. Sound like you’ll be the same, which is something to be treasured. And yes, I am writing this through tears 🙁
Thank you, Jake. It’s the habit of calling and talking to him that’s getting me right now. And the thought that I can’t tell him about what’s happening with the kids. And the idea that now, he really isn’t going back to the fishing cottage anymore.
I know what you mean, Jake. These are things I can’t see myself forgetting or fully recovering from. Just moving on is all I can hope for, knowing that there’s a pretty sizable hole that can’t be filled any longer.
Beautiful tribute, Lori. I feel like I know your dad through your words and memories. Time knows no end as memories bring our yesterdays, today, and tomorrow in a sweet embrace of comfort. Love you, Lori.
Love you right back, Cathy. And you’re right — the memories bring everything back into the present, don’t they?
That sounds like a lovely service, Lori, and very befitting the man himself.
After the acute stages of loss ease, you’ll see those same mannerisms and laughter and quicks in yourself or your family members. I can’t count how often my siblings and I say (about ourselves or one another)< "That was SO Dad!" Or "You sound just like Grandma." My sister and I even noticed our late aunt-by-marriage's mannerisms in her niece.
In time seeing those things will bring comfort and a sense that your dad has never really left any of you. He's part of you all.
That’s true, Paula. I catch myself pointing my finger in that same sly, funny way my grandmother did.
Well, I’m hoping the part he left me was his fishing ability (though I think in a few cases, I out-fished him). He did give me his fishing pole and reel a few months back. I felt like I’d struck gold. 🙂
What a beautiful remembrance, Lori. May we all be so loved and missed. I think if everyone had a parent like your dad, this world would be a different place. Thinking of you!
Thank you, Joy. 🙂
Sending you lots of love.
Not sure how I missed this when it posted, I’m sorry for that. I was thinking of you today and was going to drop a note to see how you were doing.
((big hugs)) It’s over 26 years and I still miss my dad every single day. It doesn’t go away, but the ache fades and the memories keep you moving forward. He sounds like an amazing man.
Take care of you, Friend. (hugs)
Mary
Thank you, Mary. For some reason, today is a tough one for me. And tomorrow — it’s St. Patrick’s Day. My holiday. Yet I just don’t want to celebrate. I do, but I really don’t. I will show up at the pub for a short time, but I won’t do the all-day marathon fun and games I’m used to. I feel like being reverent.
Quite a hole he’s left here. 🙁