Two years ago today, we celebrated my dad’s 75th birthday.
I asked him then how he felt, turning the calendar to such a milestone number. He told me that he felt much the same; he was still working, still active, although tempered like all of us by the pandemic. But, he said - there was no denying that he was now on the back nine of life.
What we didn’t know then was that his tee had already been planted on the 18th hole.
That while we tried so hard to protect him from this unknown virus circling the globe, we were unaware that another pathogen had already taken hold in the form of pancreatic cancer. That just 14 months later, he would be gone.
The progression from him not feeling well, to diagnosis, to stopping treatment seemed to happen at warp speed. I moved in the third week of May to help my mom care for him. Neither of us knew what to expect, or how long I would be there. I just knew I would be there until the end, and I hoped it would be a while.
It was less than three months.
In the beginning, I would take long walks after work - to get the specific food he was craving, or just for exercise. As the weeks went by, I also used this time to cry. I would walk and walk and cry and cry, and then strengthen my resolve when I was walking up the street home.
Sometimes, I would come back to him and my mom in the backyard. Just quietly sitting and enjoying the warmth. I was always happy because he was getting fresh air, and it meant he had walked, and gotten up the stairs.
It’s a heartbreaking thing to realize that one day was the last time he came up the stairs, was the last time he felt the sun on his skin. It’s a reminder to be present. To enjoy all the moments, the large ones and especially the small ones in between.
A few years ago when I was between jobs, I worked briefly over the summer at my dad’s company. It was awkward for me. The deference the other staff showed because I was the President’s child, which wasn’t helped by my dad frequently calling me ‘sweetheart’ when I asked him something.
It was a property management company, the office on the first floor of one of the condos they managed. Every morning, I would chat briefly with the concierge before going to my desk.
One day he told me that I reminded him a lot of my dad. I asked him, how? We don’t really look alike, and our demeanors weren’t that similar either.
He said, ‘You say hi every morning and ask how I’m doing. Your dad is just like that. He’s the best boss I’ve ever had. I can ask him anything and he gives me such practical advice and counsel. And he treats me exactly the same as everyone else.’
While it broke my heart to think this man had likely been frequently dismissed throughout his career as ‘just’ a doorman, it warmed my heart to hear how he felt about my dad. That’s not something you often get to know about a parent.
After my dad formally retired, telling the staff and condo residents that the cancer was terminal, we received a package of letters. He and my mom sat at the kitchen table, reading them one by one. Letters saying how much he would be missed, that he was in their prayers, thanking him. I’m so glad he got to hear that, and know how he was appreciated in his work.
I’m glad too that he got to see the messages from friends and family. All the phone calls, the people who he would let visit. He got to know how much he meant to people - and I got to see my dad as friend.
But in the end, it was only family he wanted around him. My sisters and brother-in-laws, his grandkids. And especially my mom.
In his last weeks, we set up my dad with a tablet in bed. He would watch Netflix and Prime, but he particularly liked watching YouTube videos of Jewish cantors. He loved cantorial music, having sung in our synagogue choir for years. And under an incredible cantor who was the best tenor you’ll ever hear in your life, Louis Danto.
Sometimes, he would call me and my mom into the room to listen with him a particular hymn that he loved. He would wrap his arm around my mom’s waist, his eyes closed, a look of complete peace on his face.
It was a valuable lesson for me. That even during the hardest times, you can find joy. That in his final moments, all he wanted was the people who he loved.
He worried about all of us, especially my mom and younger sister, who loves more fiercely than anyone I’ve ever met - about how they would cope when he was gone. He thought often about his grandkids, and hoped they would only have good memories of him, and not of him being ill. He was grateful to his sons-in-laws, who he knew would be there for his daughters.
When he got sick to the point that I could no longer leave the house and go on my walks - I guess I wasn’t hiding the tears as well anymore. He started worrying more about me too.
He would make me promise him that I wouldn’t forget how to smile. During some of the very long, lonely months of winter there were days when I was sure that I had. And then I would think of him telling me ‘enough already’ - and I would remember.
This has been a challenging time. The first birthday, soon the first Father’s Day without a physically present father. His unveiling - the Jewish ceremony where we put up the headstone - is in a couple of weeks.
We did get to celebrate one last birthday. My younger sister put up balloons and decorations for his 76th, he sat outside and for a while, it felt like a regular Sunday.
Grieving during a pandemic has been especially hard. I think if this had happened in the ‘before times’, I would have been out all the time, distracting myself constantly. Not having that option has meant I can’t run from grief, or the intrusive thoughts that pop into my head unbidden when I’m exercising, or trying to sleep.
But I think in some ways it’s been a blessing. And I think it’s made my mom and sisters and I closer.
Just before we sold the house, I took a bunch of stones from the backyard. In my religion, you place stones on graves, rather than flowers. For their permanence.
I took a stone for each of my family members, so we can have a piece of us and him there. I hope that it will also bring some measure of peace to us all.
Last night I had a dream. At first I was watching a video through my mom’s phone. I had come home from a walk and she was showing me that my dad had gotten into the pool. As I peered at the screen, I thought I could make out my dad sitting in a chair in the water. I was impressed by their ingenuity.
But as I leaned closer, the screen dissolved and I was there. My whole family was in the backyard, my dad was deeply tanned as he always was, back to his full size and strength. Splashing around with his grandkids. Eventually he got out of the pool and walked - like he was healthy and had never been sick.
But even in the dream, he was and he knew. He sat us down and told us he was ready, he was going to do it on his own terms, that everything would be okay.
When I woke up, I was sad because it hadn’t happened that way. And I worried that the dream was already beginning to fade. But I like to think he was sending me a message for his birthday. Everything is okay.
In September, I will go to Cape Town for the first time in over a decade and a half. I will take with the remaining four stones from the backyard and place them on his parents and brother and sister’s grave. To close the circle. And I will make another promise to keep smiling.
Maybe today you can do something you love, that brings you joy, that makes you smile. And when you do, please wish my dad a happy birthday.
Beautiful tribute. Touching remembrance of your dad. I love the stone idea. Please, don't "forget how to smile".
A beautiful reflection. I too often dreamt of my father after he died and often felt the dreams contained messages from him. Strangely, often the dream messages came through phones as well which perhaps is just a sign of the times. They are real. As real as any reality ever is. And the comfort the message brings even if it also is shaded by sadness is genuine I believe. Your love for your father and his for you is actually woven into your being so in a true sense he is always a part of you. I think he would like you to know that and live with that truth.