It happened one week after my first Zoom farewell. Dad’s funeral took place today at 10 a.m. Eastern (6 a.m. Alaska time), with a family viewing starting at 9 a.m. My sister-in-law called me via FaceTime so that my niece and I could attend.
In fact, she called at 5:45 a.m. so that we could attend the viewing as well. Obviously itwas painful and jarring to see Dad in his coffin. Yet it was actually an improvement over the last time I’d seen him, unconscious and on a ventilator. He looked the way I expected him to look: recognizable as my father, yet not much like him. There, but not there.
My niece and I were also there, but not there, thanks be to technology. I’m not being sarcastic. It was hard, of course, and we cried, but we also got to be part of this ritual from afar. Funerals aren’t actually for the dead. They’re for the living. The dead don’t much care what you do to them. The grieving survivors, however, need some kind of ceremony to come to terms with the reality in front of them.
It was of course surreal to hear the eulogy from 4,300-plus miles away. And it was heart-wrenching to see family photos displayed: Dad as a kid with his siblings, as a teenager with his brand-new ham radio set, as a high-school senior at the prom with my mother (both of them looking sophisticated yet impossibly young, like children playing dress-up), as a father of young kids (us) and then as a father of adult kids.
Dad with dance friends. Dad standing out in front of his Christmas-tree farm. Dad at his wedding to Priscilla.
And nearby, Dad in his final repose. Watching Priscilla kiss him goodbye and gently tuck a light blanket around him brought me to my knees: I will never see my Dad again in this life.
My brother’s words at the funeral were the saddest. Among all the siblings, he was the closest to Dad both geographically and personally. Glenn had stayed in the area where we were raised, which meant he saw my father often. Worked with him, too, on projects at both their homes.
When the cemetery service concluded I sat in the kitchen with my niece, eating freshly baked bread and talking. The two of us were still in shock, I think. After all, Dad died only nine days after being hospitalized with COVID and for at least half those days seemed to be improving.
I wanted for us to take the rest of the day off. (Hell, I wanted to take the rest of 2020 off. This hellish year can’t end soon enough for my tastes.) But she’s a teacher and had to go to her virtual classroom, and I had my part-time editing job. Frankly, I needed the distraction. So we headed off to our separate computers, trying to compartmentalize our grief.
Our safety net
I kept thinking about my brother, though, and about how lost he and my sisters looked. (Insofar as I could tell with the masks they all wore.) No doubt it was the same expression on my own face. So midway through the morning I wrote a letter to Glenn to try and sort out what I was feeling.
Here’s part of it (initials representing family members’ names):
When you spoke of Dad referring to himself as your “safety net,” I realized how he tried to be that for all of us. He was our safe place to land, the guy we could always call. When D. needed the engine replaced in her car, when J. needed a ride to work, when you needed a hand with a project – we knew without a doubt that Dad stood ready with cash, transportation and advice/hands-on help.
Some people never outgrow the need for help from home. They panic at every little issue and are constantly, constantly asking for assistance. They never quite grow up and stand on their own feet. That’s enabling, and it’s a bad idea for both the helper and the helped. But because Dad (and Mom) taught by example how to handle whatever came our way, we didn’t often have to ask for help.
The fact that we knew we COULD ask was probably the reason we usually didn’t. It’s a lot easier to step out onto the high wire, and to keep walking, if you know that you’ll be safe if you fall. That kind of security does wonders for a person’s balance.
I’m so glad you did ask for his help with those projects, because Dad was the kind of guy who showed love through acts of service. It wasn’t enough for him to visit L. or A. or me – he always wanted to know if there was anything that needed doing. And I realized I’m the same way when I visit my own kid: “Are there any projects you wanted done that need two sets of hands? Or is there anything I’m good at – hand laundry, pie-baking, organizing a garage, keeping your company while you finally clear out all that paperwork that piled up during the divorce – that would help you?”
It doesn’t feel like drudgery. It feels like a blessing.
And now we have to find a way to live the rest of our lives without him. That’s the hardest part of losing Mom, and now losing Dad: How do we manage to go on from day to day, and how do we live in ways that he would approve of and that would honor his memory?
By doing what we’re doing, I think. We take care of our families. We’re there when friends need a hand. We donate money to help those who can’t help themselves. We treat others as we wish to be treated – and not in some “look at me, look how Christian I’m being!” way. We do it because it’s the right thing to do, the way Dad took our family’s radio down to that hovel off Back Neck Road and likely changed the life of the man who lived there all alone.
I am so, so sorry that you’ve lost your building buddy, your sounding board, your coffee-and-coconut-doughnut partner. It will be a while before any of us feels whole, but I think that out of the four of us, you’re suffering the most. In time it will be possible to think of Dad without getting tearful. I still feel cheated that COVID took him away from us. But I also know that there are things that I will never understand in this life, and that I have to come to terms with that. Man proposes, God disposes – not always the way we would like, but in the way that things must be.
Treating myself gently
And so I must go on with the painful yet necessary task of healing. I’ll do my share of the housework and cooking, gently pushing aside my dearest partner who has barely let my feet touch the ground since that Zoom farewell call. I’ll also go back to my part-time editing gig, because this is a busy time of year for the company.
But I’ve called a temporary halt to taking on more freelance assignments. One of my FinCon friends advised me to treat myself “gently” in the days to come. For at least two weeks I’ll avoid extra work entirely. I’m acutely aware of how lucky I am to be able to do this.
During that time I hope to take care of some personal business, to spend a lot of time holding/being held by my partner, to visit Linda B., to hang out with my niece and her teens, and to get at least one professional massage (I’m a mass of knots, as you might imagine).
Thanks to all of you for the intense outpouring of support and kind words. I suggest that you hug your loved ones extra tight, and let them know they are loved. You can do that in the way that suits you best, whether it’s word or deed. But do it. We don’t know how long we’ll get with the ones who matter.
*hugs*
I’m so sorry, that had to be the toughest call ever.
I’m glad you have the ability to take some extra time for yourself over the next weeks. May this time bring you peace and healing.
I have always appreciated what a gift you give us with your honesty about your life. My condolences on the loss of your father. And thank you for giving me the gift of less anxiety that if we should face a virtual goodbye in upcoming months that we will have the strength as well.
Codee, you have so perfectly stated everything I wanted to say that the only thing I’ll say is I’m so sorry for your loss. This shit storm of a year cannot end soon enough.
I am so sorry for what you are going through. I appreciate that you can share your feelings with your readers, as my BIL recently died and I was sad (and…. bitter as a lemon!) that I could not be with my husband and his family during this tough time due to COVID travel restrictions by my employer. Thank you for your perspective, and I pray you get the rest and comfort that you need to heal your heart and soul. Your dad would want that for you.
Be well, Donna. I lost both my parents when I was fairly young. It takes time, but now my sisters and I smile and do a lot of “remember when”? The living help us soldier on.
Losing a parent is so hard – praying for peace and comfort for you and your family.
Thanks be for a Daddy that raised me to “live in ways that he would approve of and that would honor his memory.” May you begin to find peace, Donna. The pain diminishes but the hole is never filled.
I’m so sorry for your loss. Your dad sounds like he was an incredible father.
So beautifully expressed, Donna. Your gift is palpable, as is your pain.
The void never goes away because parents’ lives are so intricately intertwined with our own, so in essence losing a parent is losing part of one’s self.
A beautiful tribute to your father. To be mourned is to be loved, and what you have written illustrates how much he was loved.
Donna: My deepest condolences on your loss, and my deepest thanks for making your loss into a blessing for the rest of us throught the gift of your writing.
This was a sad post in so many ways. It caused me to recall feelings of loss of my parents. I still have not recovered and it has been 30+ years. I am sorry for your loss.
Beautifully written. Brought tears to my eyes. Take care of yourself. Ann
Before I saw your post, I was already thinking about my grandfather, born on this day 114 years ago. It sounds like he and your father were kindred spirits. My grandfather was 23 when the Great Depression started, and it shaped his life forever. Mine, too, because of the frugality he taught me. He’s been gone for 40 years already, but I often think of him singing “I’ll Take you Home Again, Kathleen” to me.
Thanks for sharing memories of your father—having a father you can count on is one of life’s greatest gifts. Donna, I’m so sorry for your loss. May his memory be for a blessing.
Hugs from Seattle.
May God bless you and give you strength during this time of grieving. My heart goes out to you.
Gosh, I felt the same way in May! And we still haven’t had a mass for my mom; her 1 wish because of travel.
However during the service at the funeral home, the priest (who didn’t even know my mom) talked about her love of being a mom and taking care of a house and family. I didn’t realize until I read your comment about “how do we continue on”. And by taking care of the house and my family the way my parents would want me to is how I go on. I speak to my siblings and my daughter and make sure everyone is OK. And I do what I can for friends and even a few strangers.
Thank you for sharing the experience because even though a lot have gone thru “the virtual funeral” a lot have not. And it did suck not being able to say good bye with with my family NOT on a screen.
My gosh, Donna you have such a way with words. Got me very misty eyed. I loss a friend and classmate a couple days ago and while we weren’t close in recent years, it was very sudden and a shock. Someone my age lost her life and it’s been very heavy on my mind. I hope the letter finds your brother well. It’s almost poetic. It’s reminding me of no matter how long we feel we have on this earth this lifetime of ours is too short. Take care
Your words about your father ring true as my father was much the same way. (He’s been gone 13 years now.) That kind of love and support is irreplaceable. I love the way you have with words, expressing much of what I feel but am unable to express as well.
I’m so glad you were able to facetime the funeral as I’m sure it’ll bring you comfort in the days ahead. And yes, please do go gently on yourself, you must adapt to a whole new way of being in the world now – and that’s not easy.
Reading your post brought back memories of my own father…like yours was to you, he was my rock. He was always there for anything and everything. When I am facing a crisis or simply need a ride, my very first thought is to call him even though he’s been gone for over twelve years now.
The loving and thoughtful letter you wrote to your brother will surely help him with his own healing process. I hope he and all of you take the time you need to grieve. Take care of yourself. It’s good to know you have such a supportive DF by your side.
Thank you for sharing your tribute to your father. I’ve read a lot about him over the years and he seemed like a great guy.
I hope you will be gentle with yourself and try to heal.
Donna, hugs to you and your family. I am so very sorry for the loss of your father.
from a former “co-worker” in the business office.
So sorry for your loss. My prayers are with you
So sorry Donna. Thought of you this morning as I drove to the county park, across street from his winter home, for my Saturday morning run. Hope time heals your pain and memories of him help.
Thanks, Cheryl. I’d been hoping that by next year it would be safe to visit him, and the three of us could go out for doughnuts again.
God Donna, so ready for 2020 to be gone. Being deprived of the normal path of grief is beyond abusive. I was so thankful that Dad passed last summer and we could actually gather. Things must get better.
I am taking your suggestions for getting through grief very much to heart. We have just had a devastating fire through our community and a lot of political backlash crap to go with. Two days ago I turned in my “retirement” letter from being a volunteer firefighter. More like I f’n quit…I read everyone’s account of loss and the tears come up. Waiting for that rainbow after the storm and thinking of you when I rustle up some comfort food.
Nothing like political backlash (and its attendant second-guessing) to make an awful situation untenable. You have my sympathy.
Gentle hugs to you, Donna. You are processing a loss that can sometimes feels like a heavy blanket of sorrow draping across your shoulders. There is no time frame or ‘right’ way to grief. Be kind to yourself. I’ve tried hard to see my part of 2020 as a time of learning patience, of looking inward and whatever positive thing I could think of to try to manage the misery of this weird, weird year better and it’s not easy. Here’s hoping the rest of this awful year finds you well, at peace and gently moving back into the routines you enjoy.
… , thanks for sharing, my thoughts are with you.
Read this wonderful post on the 19th anniversary of my sister Lily’s unexpected death. Thanks for helping me to put this difficult day into perspective. May God bless you abundantly.♥️♥️
How painful that must have been to lose your sister. I’m glad I could help even a little.
No words. Just sadness for you. : ,,, (
I’m so sorry for your loss. No matter our age, I don’t think one is ever ready to lose a parent.
Prayers for peace during this difficult time. I am so glad that you could be a part of your Dad’s funeral because family does help with the healing.
Hugs…..
Wow, I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I peeked in here. I’m so sorry for the loss of your dad. Your letter to your brother was so lovely.
My parents died about five years ago. Just tonight I wrote about some family memories on another forum, encouraging someone to spend the time and money to be with their aging parents. Sad as it was to lose my parents, it was comforting to share my memories and encourage someone else to seize the moment(s).
I hope sharing your dad’s story and the great memories of him help get you through the sadness. Thanks for all you do, Donna. Your dad was surely a proud papa.
Thanks for your kind words, Dicey.