A Dock, A Letter, and My Dad

I was just going through some old photos in my computer, deleting the fuzzy ones and dark ones.  I came across a couple of photos that remind me of my Dad.

In 2007 The Fisherman camped at some new friends' home on a lake just down the road from where he worked in Alaska.  When I went to visit him that summer, I spent a lot of time alone while he was working.  One day, I walked out to the dock of this little lake and wrote my Dad and his wife a long letter.  It was a special time to me.  I felt very connected to my Dad for that hour or so.  He loved planes and there I was, looking out across a quiet little lake at a couple of float planes parked around the edge of the water.  He loved learning about new places and he loved it when I experienced something he didn't get to do but would have liked to.

I wrote to him about the planes across the water, about the planes taking off or coming in close for a landing on a neighboring lake just a strip of land away (to the left behind the trees). I wrote about the bald eagle I heard calling from the air waaaaay over my head as he made circles in the sky on his way up and up.  I wrote about the loon I saw dive under water and head straight for me.  I watched him swimming like  a  torpedo under water right toward the dock.  When he got about 5 feet away he saw me sitting there and abruptly veered off to my left.  He eventually popped up a safe 20 feet away from me. 

When I began writing the letter, a float plane took off  from the neighboring lake to my left and flew past me on it's way to some chartered fishing adventure.  As I was writing my closing lines, another float plane came roaring in behind me for a landing on the same lake, flying low over me, banking left and just skimming the trees to land on the lake across the road.  I told him about all of it.

Though I wasn't really with Dad, I hold this as one of my favorite memories of being with him.  I knew that all the special and wonderful things I was experiencing as I wrote the letter, he would love.  He would visualize them.  He would smile.  He would laugh and say, "Wow!"  or "Boy, I'd sure like to see that!"  And he would probably get tears in his eyes...over the fact that his daughter was living them,  that I was sharing them with him, and that he could live them through me.  Dad was like that.

After

When faced with the death of a loved one and the necessary distraction of planning the funeral and taking care of things, one tends to shove aside the looming grief in order to function.  Later...I'll let the weight of my sadness hit me later. But right now I have to get things done. 

I had this mindset in the days after Dad's death.  "After" was my subconscious mental word.  After the service, then it will hit me.  After all this planning, then I'll have to face the real grief.  After... then I'll have the time to deal with it.  After.

When the memorial service was over and all Dad's memorabilia and photos were packed up, we went to Paul's home for lunch together.  Then it was back to Dave's where I was staying.  I found that I didn't want to change out of my dress.  Let me tell you, I never wear dresses.  I'm not all that comfortable in them and much prefer jeans or shorts.

But, there I was in this little black dress, and I didn't want to get out of it.  I was keenly aware of what was going on inside of me. I didn't want to change into my shorts yet - my everyday, ordinary, back-to-normal shorts.  

I wasn't ready to "go back to normal" and it was strongly symbolized by my clothes.  I didn't want the "all-about-Dad" to end.  My black dress was the symbol of that mark in time.  The "all-about-Dad" emphasis kept me close to him, and I didn't want to let go.  I found it very interesting and decided to just roll with it until I was ready. So I stayed in my dress for awhile longer.

I also recognized that that little black dress symbolized the marking of a specific point in time when the "after" would begin.  I wasn't ready for After yet.  I was a little afraid of After, knowing I had shoved a big weight of grief onto it.  I wasn't ready to welcome that weight by officially beginning my After.

Eventually, I was ready.  Things seemed comfortable and the funeral seemed past enough that I went into my room to read my book for awhile before dinner.  I changed into my shorts and tee shirt and all was fine.  I was ready.   I was really glad I was aware of what was going on inside of me.  And glad I didn't push myself or do what seemed unnatural at the moment.  I'm glad I stayed in my black dress a little while longer, until it came naturally to change.

And the After?  Well, it didn't fall on me like a ton of bricks.  In fact, I sort of realized that After had a new date for me.  I knew I wouldn't really freely grieve until I went home, where I could be alone in the quiet woods.  Now that I am home, I have cried freely as it has come.  My real grieving has begun.  It feels like deja vu, a repeat of last summer.  I never guessed I would be spending another quiet summer in the woods in the company of fresh grief, but here I am.

It Was A Beautiful Service

So, now...about the service, taken mostly from my journal that night....


It was a beautiful memorial service. The flowers were beautiful. We did a nice job of it with the memorabilia tables and photo boards. The honor guard was so, so beautiful and moving.

First the chaplain entered and came up to the front where we had on the table the main flower arrangement, Dad's Navy dress portrait which I matted and framed, and his urn (brushed silver metal with the Navy insignia on the side and engraved underneath) and a beautiful red rose in a bud vase (from Baby Hannah, his great-grandchild). The chaplain bowed to Dad's urn and then took a seat behind the lectern.

Then the Navy personnel entered, silently and slowly making their way down the aisle to the front where they solemnly saluted Dad's ashes. There were the two flag soldiers (a man and a woman) and a Captain - a very special deal I was told. Paul (my brother) said he was a Chaplain because he had crosses on his shoulder bars.

Then the side door to the courtyard was opened and we could hear the Air Force rifle guard getting into position. Those of us in the front two family rows could see our the door and watch as they gave Dad a nine gun salute, firing three volleys of three rifles. Then a soldier played Taps. All of it got me and I could not hold back from crying off and on throughout.

Then the soldiers inside took the flag which was folded and resting against the urn. They ceremonially unfolded it and with a snap held it out horizontal to the ground by all four corners. With great precision and formality they then refolded it and presented it to the Captain, who gave a long salute staring directly into the face of the female soldier holding it out for him. He took the flag and then she gave a long slow salute in return. He then walked over to me and presented the flag to me, speaking words of commemoration and honor about Dad's service, thanking him for that service on behalf of the President and the military, and thanking us as well. Then he handed me a little pouch with three of the rifle shells from the gun salute. Wow.

They would have given it to Becky (Dad's wife) but she didn't make it to the service. I am sad for her, knowing the emotions of the event were too much for her - as well as the physical. (She went into the Emergency Room herself just hours before Dad did and was in a surgical procedure under anaesthesia when Dad passed away.) My feelings are mixed about her absence but part of me knew all along it was a very real possibility. Paul and Dave (brothers) elected to have me receive the flag in her stead.

Dad would have loved to have seen it all, pleased that it was done for him.  My brother, Dave, mentioned this in his talk.  While Dad had clearly said to all of us that he didn't want people hovering over his body at a funeral and didn't want all the fuss of everyone gathering around crying and sad...we know, too, that he would have been fairly "tickled" at the military honors and being remembered so lovingly by we who spoke and those who came.

Then the chaplain gave his talk. He was not at all what I ever imagined he would be. He was elderly and spoke unbiblical platitudes about every person being a child of God and welcomed by Him into the heavenly afterlife. And all in one of those sing-songy manners of voice. I almost giggled at how ridiculous he sounded and I was fairly amazed at the syrupy untruths he spoke about everyone being received into heaven. Dad probably would have quietly disliked such a "sermon" if only for the fluffy manner of presentation.

At last it was our turn to speak. Dave spoke first. He talked comfortably and engagingly about Dad's personality, tremendous skills, his love of new adventures, and his rare but wonderful bedside manner with his patients. He relayed that the night before a surgery, Dad could always be found sitting right on the patient's bed explaining and drawing out exactly what was wrong with them and what he was going to do the next day in surgery to fix it - putting all fears aside in his patient.

Paul shared some personal memories of times with Dad. The memories were so special, I loved it. About skiing together - first at Crystal Mountain and then at all the great places out west. He shared about one special day in Snowmass where they rode multiple chair lifts for over an hour all the way to the top. Then they skied just the top over and over until Dad said they ought to do the whole run top to bottom at least once. So they did. An hour's ride to the top and a 15 minute run to the bottom. They were exhausted when they finished but so satisfied. Paul said he has often looked back and thought if he could live any days over in his life, that would be one of them.

He shared about when Dad had his ear surgery and took a year's leave of absence. He bought a pool table and he and Paul spent hours playing pool into the night. He said they both got pretty good. Later in life, they played golf together, noting that they weren't very good either of them. And how Dad always used yellow balls (we had one on the memorabilia table). He related how one time Dad hit a beautiful shot, straight and soaring...but headed right for a shaggy overgrown palm tree. The ball hit the thick skirting of dead palm fronds and completely disappeared. From their distant position they saw this ball drop down out of the tree. When they got there, it was a white ball! Not Dad's ball at all! What are the odds?!

Then he talked about when he got his first medical job as an orderly at Phoenix General Hospital and how everyone came up to him and told him how much they liked and respected Dad.  Doctors, nurses, and even the housekeeping staff! WOW!

Then it was my turn. I had a brief intro, listing three words to describe Dad: friendly, interesting, and excellence. Then I read my Thank You Dad piece I'd given him on Father's Day several years ago. When I got to the line thanking Dad for walking me down the aisle I stopped, cried, and then looked up to address Kira (my step-sister) saying I'm so sorry she won't get to experience that. She had been crying at the thought anyway, but when I said that to her she broke down even more.

At the end I explained about Becky not being able to be there, being not well herself and having recently been in the hospital, too. I didn't have any of it written down so it didn't come out like I would have preferred but I said that they had been married 17 years, that Dad loved her and spent the last 17 years of his life with her, enjoying things together, reading, watching movies and that they loved each other and took care of each other.

A couple of minutes later, the service was over and we were all being greeted by many people. My friends were there, Sherri, Lori, Cindy and Buzz, and Pam. Former partners of Dad's, colleagues in medicine, names I have long known. Friends of my brothers came. Friends of my nieces and nephews. My brother-in-law came. Old family friends came. And patients came.

But the one that got me the most was when I saw Pam. I just lost it and tears came when I saw her and hugged her. My friend since 2nd Grade. My ski trip buddy on trips with Dad. It was so special that she was there. We don't often see each other, or even talk with each other often these days, but our bond is strong and when we get together, it is as if only a heartbeat of time has passed.  It was so special that she was there.

I took photos of the memorabilia tables, Dad's uniform, flight suit, Navy dress hat, the flowers and such.  And I am so sad to report that in a blindly foolish moment while attempting to upload them to my computer, I lost them all.  I'd been warned about removing memory cards and disconnecting card readers too soon...and now I will never forget or in a sudden and non-thinking moment do it again.

Honor Guard

I have been putting off my blogging...just not ready to write about Dad because I've been too sad. But seeing how I left you all hanging with the last post about the memorial service being the next day, I thought I should write about the service.

First, let me tell you that while my dad's career was that of physician and surgeon, he was in the Navy at two different times in his life. He trained as a bomber pilot during World War II. He was blessed not to have to see active fighting in that the war ended within a week of his graduation from Naval Aviation school.

He wanted to use his medidal career in the Navy and inquired about re-enlisting even before he had graduated from medical school. My how my life and that of my brothers would have been different had they accepted him. You see, my dad was a D.O. rather than an M.D. He was a Doctor of Osteopathy. Simply put, a D.O. is a Medical Doctor and a Chiropractor in one, although it is more than that and not exactly chiropracty. DOs are fully medical doctors but they have the added education in musculo-skeletal "manipulation". DOs are widely accepted now, but back in 1950 when Dad expressed his interest to the U.S. Navy it was not so. He received a letter which basically said the military did not accept DOs for medical service, only MDs. While DOs were welcome to serve in non-physician ways, the Navy would not allow them to practice medicine the same as MDs. Furthermore, the letter stated, they did not expect to ever accept DOs to serve as military physicians in the foreseeable future.

My dad then went on to graduate medical school, get certified in General Surgery and, later, also get certified in Urological Surgery. Being board certified in two fields of surgery is not very common as I understand it. My dad was an excellent doctor.

Fast forward to 1980 and the Navy was only too happy for my dad to re-enlist and practice medicine for them. So thrilled were they that they gave him the retro-active rank of Captain of 12 years, because of his excellent professional credentials. He spent six years serving soldiers and their families on two different bases. He even had two stints on the USS Midway and a temporary assignment in Iceland. He loved it all.

Because of his military service and how he loved it, we were encouraged to inquire about military honors for his memorial service. They were approved with flying colors.

Before the service started, the honor guard assembled in the courtyard of the beautiful funeral home where we had the service. They stood, fixed in honor and respect, there in the courtyard as people gathered inside the windowed receiving area before the service started.

What a sight.   And what an honor for us to have them there, honoring our Dad.

Dad - Tomorrow is the Service

Dad's memorial service is tomorrow. Feeling like my heart is dragging, being pulled toward an experience I'd just rather not have to go through.  But at the same time I am looking forward to hearing from people who loved him, people I don't even know, like his patients.  From what I've heard so far, he was dearly loved, enjoyed, and appreciated.  Of course I knew that, but it's so good to hear it right from the sources. 

I'm also looking forward to our remembrance tables with photos and memorabilia that show a glimpse of who Dad is.  Sad, though, that many photos just could not be found.  Slices of his life will be missing from the displays - important slices like of my childhood years before the divorce, and of his life with his wife of 16 years who is now facing life without him.  We just can't find or get to these photos.  We have mostly early photos from before I was born and then recent photos from the last 10 years. I do feel badly for his wife, she will be little represented and that's just not right. I've had to let go of the sadness over these disappointments. We've done the best we can and it will be very nice as it is.

One really wonderful thing, though, is that we found his old medical bag, "Dad's Black Bag", as we called it when I was little.  It still had medical supplies in it, some of which we left in.  We found some Navy stuff, too, that will be great.

I'll post again after things settle down for me.  I'm sure when I get back home to the quiet woods it will be there that I start to melt down.  Been holding it all at bay for the last week.  Gosh...it's been a week today since he passed.  Guess I'm glad I didn't notice at 1:00 p.m. today.

Until later...

Dad

My Dad passed away today. 

I can't hardly believe it.  It seemed to come out of nowhere and all happen so fast.  I am so glad I talked with him the night he went to the Emergency Room. 

I've written a couple email replies and a simple post to Facebook tonight...and that is about all I can muster.

Dad Today

Dad is worse today.  There's actually no pneumonia but his body is undergoing shock; his systems are shutting down.  No one knows what has caused the shock.  It could be "sepsis", or infection, but doctors are in disagreement about this. If it is sepsis, they haven't a clue where it's coming from or what's caused it. Measures have been taken to address dangerous levels of various things. Levels that if sustained are "incompatible with life." The next 24 hours will reveal which way he's going to go - improve or go further down.

Waiting.  It hurts.  It's frightening.  It's vulnerable.  It's hard.

I have been learning in the last several years what it feels like to trust God in the midst of frightening, unwelcome, unwanted, and painful circumstances.  It feels good though the letting go is scary and the pain of the situation is still there.  The pain is still painful. It still feels awful.  But instead of fighting against the pain, I've been learning how to give myself to God within it all.  Not that I do this all the time, or do it well when I do.  But I sometimes come to accept my lack of control and give the jumbled bag of what's left over to Him.   That being all my emotions.  It's funny how we can play tricks on ourselves and actually cling to such things as fear, anger, denial, resistance, and whatnot...as if somehow they are tools to give us some form of control over the uncontrollable thing we're facing.  Though I freely cry to God of the pain and plead for my heart's desires, I find I sometimes come to place both the situation and my broken heart into His hands and let the full weight of it all rest there.  And though the pain is still pain, there is safety in the rest of His hands.

It is in this sometimes confusing mix of heartache and trust that I find myself now, regarding Dad.  Questions challenge my heart that wants only to not lose him.  But what would his life be like if he pulls out of this?  Would it be normal or degraded?  As only God knows, I must trust Him to do what is best for Dad. I must trust that He will do what's right for my Dad.  I must trust.  It is the only thing I can cling to.  God, and His goodness and wisdom.

But, oh, how vulnerable it feels from moment to moment...

I Love You Dad

My Dad has had a heart attack.  It was long in duration - because he didn't tell anyone for about 8 hours - but it caused little damage to his heart.  However, he is in "very critical" condition due to pneumonia and infection brought on by side effects of the heart attack.  Boy, I am so not ready for this.  There is a good probability that he won't make it.  I can't believe it...   Sudden severe illness is the worst.  You are left so unprepared, so startled.  Reeling.  Trying to take it all in and gain some equilibrium.  I am scared.  I am so sad.  I'm in shock.  And I am so not ready to lose him, too.