Looking back one year, today

Good day. You all know this is the marker of my world going wonky.  Today a year ago, my father died, at 6.30am.  I didn't awake at this mystical hour this morning, as I thought I would, but it took me forever to fall asleep last night with thoughts, memories. Memories of that last night with Dad in the hospital. Another 12, 14 hour day. He was very sedated but feeling such pain and struggling to breathe. The proper life support tubes were in place, in every orifice. I don't know if he realized we'd said goodbye that night. So much pain medication to keep him comfortable.

The morning of January 13th I got a call ----we were all staying at my father's house-- at 6.30am.
THE CALL.
We all buckled for a moment in the hallway, unkempt, sleep -deprived, and suddenly with a hole ripped right through us . "Do you want an autopsy?" "Do you want to come and see the body before we release IT to the funeral home?" I called my sister, in a panic, and asked her what she wanted. I was too numb to know what to say. She wanted to see him, in the hospital, before the funeral home came to get 'the body' formally known as my father, so we all got ready and went.

We all got dressed: karl and i , my aunt and uncle, and got to the hospital to see him unplugged, after three weeks of tubes everywhere. Machines were turned off. It was quiet. I asked how he died. The nurse said his heart gave out. From the pressure of the lung tumor upon it. But he was still warm.

My sister came, and we felt his warmth in the hospital bed, but there was a stiffness that wasn't there before. We kissed him and kissed him, his cheeks, his forehead, his hands. Had it sunken in? Suddenly a plate of cookies and a carafe of coffee came in from the hospital. Such a lovely gesture, but it could serve no purpose. We never even gave it a glance. We stayed for a while--don't know how long, truly--

And then I went into Warrior Mode. He had asked me to be Executrix.  And so I went: Delegating phone calls ---Karl to some, Ro to others, Me to others. An appointment with the funeral home, the stone mason, the cemetery groundskeeper, the paul bearers, the venue for the luncheon after: my father's favorite happy hour location--the one with whom he shared every Friday his closest friends, his soul brothers.

The three of us --me, my sister, my husband-- met with the funeral director to choose things. "CHOOSE THINGS". Casket, service, prayer cards, wake hours, obituary (which I wrote), burial next to my mother . Viewing date. Service Date. Interment date.  Skads of phone calls that my aunt lovingly made to our extended families up and down the east coast and out to Ohio.

I don't remember when the funeral happened, honestly.  At first we wanted no priest because my father had an open disdain for the Catholic Church. (N.B. We are descendants of the first two brothers in the Catholic Church to be cannonized together). I knew of my father's disdain; my extended family did not. At the last minute I asked the funeral home if we could have a priest open and close the ceremony with a proper prayer. I read excerpts from The Warrior of Light by Paulo Coehlo; my sister talked about him as a Poppi, or grandfather. Perfect . Our wonderful friends and family from all over came to tell us what a wonderful man he was.  The receiving line was hell. My sister and I barely kept our composure.  I did a little bit better, but I'm really good about putting up walls against people. My sister is very gentle.

We were all still numb. My father had us believing he was going to win. We all wanted him to win, and frankly if anyone could, it would be someone with his fierce character, his fierce loyalty to family and friends. It was a shock that he died, even though we'd had the meeting with the staff "there's nothing we can do but keep him comfortable"...

So he was buried next to my mother, who had died January 4th, 2007.  My father could not face seeing the stone mason to get a stone going for my mother--I mean, he was diagnosed to death so close after my mother died--and so, in Warrior mode ,so I went straight away, and decided on their name as a headstone, with their individual names  and dates. I wanted to add something personal, so desperately; my sister was so distraught, I didn't want to bother her. So I decided on beautiful roses, briar roses that are intergrown, and then the phrase, (or epitaph) "Beloved Parents." Beautifully executed on Connecticut granite.  I was not able to witness its placement, but the lovely stone mason sent me a photograph. (He was a paesan, btw) And I have seen it since.

I've visited their graves twice now: once in June when cleaning out my father's house as it needed; and once after. My dearest friend, M, set some flowers there once the home was sold. I asked her to say "thank you" to both of them. For so many things. Too many to number. I have the briar roses tattooed on  the small of my back. I may add "beloved parents" but I don't know. That's already in my heart.

I feel cheated. I still hear my father's voice on the other end of the phone "Hellooooooo!" And I see his smile and feel his hugs that had an audible component "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," whether in person or over the phone.
I've read his love letters to my mother; he kept all the cards I sent him every week for two years. I couldn't keep those.

My father was a man of substance, of principle, of loyalty, and above all, love. In my life, I will never know a man his equal.

Requiescat in pace, mi padre.