I’m not a fan of the unknown. I like to have a plan, and more of then than not, a back up plan. Some call that being anal retentive. Some call that being organised. I simply call it life.
When my Dad was sick, I tried to get him to talk to me about his Celebration of Life. He had asked me, once he knew he wasn’t going to get better, to preside his service; not because I am a priest, but because I am a Legion Padre, and would do it “properly”. It was high praise from my Dad and while it was the most difficult thing I have ever done, nobody would have been able to do it the way I did it.
I am loving the mountain view from where I live. I get out every single day and walk. It may be a few blocks or it may be a few kilometers. And every time I walk its with my head up so I can see the majesty which surrounds me. Sometimes it’s so beautiful I can barely catch my breath.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my Dad. I have no idea why he’s on my mind so much but he is. Today was a very productive and active day. We had our mid week worship, went to the Seniors Center for lunch (which is often the highlight of my day, if not my week). I applied for a BC driver’s license. I did laundry, chatted with a friend and tried to watch a movie.
I can’t settle. I’m feeling tension in me, not a pain per se, but more of a level of anxiety. And I’ve no idea why.
So I logged onto this blog and did a search with the tag “dad”.
We had a complicated relationship. He was my idol and hero for many, many years. When I was in my late 20’s I made a relationship decision that hurt him badly. And so we did not speak for close to a decade. When we began speaking again it was, initially awkward, but eventually we found a more comfortable place to be.
When we learned his anyeurism was not operable I tried to get Dad to plan his service. It took nearly four years but we finally had the conversation. And it went something like this…
ME: So, Dad…
DAD: What?
ME: Have you given any thought to what you want for your service?
DAD: No.
ME: It’s something we need to discuss.
DAD: I know.
ME: When do you think you’ll want to discuss it.
DAD: Not now.
ME: Okay. Maybe next time I’m here.
DAD: Maybe.
We had this conversation likely a dozen times. Finally I hit on an idea…
ME: Dad?
DAD: What?
ME: Have you had a chance to think about what you want?
DAD: No.
ME: Do you think we need to have this conversation or do you want to leave it with me?
DAD: What do you mean?
ME: Well, I’m thinking you can either tell me what you want, or I’ll do what I think you’ll want, which will definitely not be what you want. Is that what you want?
DAD: No.
ME: Okay then. (silence) Well?
DAD: Well, what?
ME: Your service?
DAD: What about it?
ME: Readings? Hymns? Homily? Eulogy? Location? Party? Interment?
DAD: Don’t care. My Way. No Way. Yes, you and David. Legion. One round on me. At the Columbarium, but not the Legion one.
ME: Thanks Dad. What that so hard?
DAD: No.
ME: Good.
DAD: So you’ll take care of it then?
ME: Yes.
DAD: Good. (silence) Don’t you have somewhere else to be?
And just so you know, the readings were carefully chosen by myself and approved by my family. We played “My Way” when the service ended. There was no homily. Both my brother and I provided an eulogy. The service was at the Legion with his ashes present. As soon as the service ended, the bar was opened…and we raised a glass to Dad. We found a niche in the Columbarium that was not visible from the road. I think he would have liked that.
I was looking at the photograph we chose for his service. It was taken after my Convocation from Seminary. He’s sat outside, looking less than impressed, with a cigarette in his hand. A picture that simply captured the essence of my Dad. I believe it was my brother who took the photo. I don’t have much of anything physical as a reminder of my Dad. I have his university diploma which is framed and hangs proudly on the wall of my office. I have the cigarette case my Mam gave my Dad when he graduated – the first university graduate in the family. I have an ornament I gave him for Christmas many years ago that was given back to me. And a cardigan with a hole in the elbow that he used to wear when he was marking.
But much more importantly than that I have my memories. His stories, which he captured in words and I now have one of only three copies ever bound. His story telling mannerisms. His sense of humour. His down to earth nature. His ability to tell it like it is and, as I age, not care what people think…to a certain extent…okay, that one is still in process.
I miss my Dad. This is one of those moments I often speak of with folks who are bereaved. Grief will hit like a thief in the night. And you will be left breathless. And as suddenly as it came, it will leave. And you will be alright.
I will be alright.