My father has been gone for almost six months now. I think that I finally adjusted to life without his physical presence. At times, it hasn't been easy.
His funeral was more of a memorial service than a traditional Jewish service. A number of people spoke. My brother and his son Alex spoke. His close friends, Stewart, Pedro, and Denise talked about his influence on them and his never-ending belief in them. Ron was a little bit shy speaking in front of an audience, but I know that he shared their feelings. The mayor of Tamarac spoke about my dad's commitment to the city he grew to love. Several of the Sheriff's deputies spoke about my dad's love of service and the joy they had going to lunch with him. His niece spoke about how important he was to her and her family. Julia, his VITAS hospice nurse, and one of the VITAS social workers spoke about him. When they first met him, they thought he volunteered at the nursing home. Only after he started receiving hospice services did they learn that he was a resident. The administrator of the nursing home came; a party planned for his departure was postponed for a couple of hours so that he could attend. My friend, Tom, who has been commuting back and forth to West Palm Beach, was there. I will never forget seeing him in the back row; it made me feel a connection with my friends at home.
I had the chance to talk about the "dad" of my young childhood, the "father" during those turbulent years of the Generation Gap, when we disagreed about many of the big issues, especially the war in Viet Nam. Interestingly though, my father never wavered in his belief in the rights of all. Finally, I spoke about the "friend" I came to know and love, mostly through the relationships with people who came to the funeral, people that I would not have had the opportunity to get to know if not for my father. In becoming friends with them, I got to know my father in ways that I would never have been able to. I appreciated him in ways that started as an obligation and ended as a privilege. As proud of me as he was, or said he was, I became all the more proud of him. Yes, he was stubborn and to some extent selfish, but I learned that people really loved and cared for him, very deeply.
I wished that I had been there for the last few moments of his life and I struggle to remember our last conversation. I think he told me to stop calling so much as I kept waking him up. I promised to call only twice a day.
There have been many days where I felt lost without being able to physically talk with him, to see how he was doing, help him in some small way, tell him that I loved him, and hear him tell me that he loved me and "Keep doing what you're doing."
I try to keep in touch with some of his friends. When I went back down to his condo for the last time, several of us got together at Ron's. I call them from time to time. They are very special people. I draw strength from those relationships as I do from thinking about my father.
For the first few weeks and several months, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. There was a part of me that was missing, whether it was the role of the "good son", the daily phone calls, the occasional argument, the plan to visit again, or just the sense that someone needed me that made it hard to accept his passing. I experienced some very difficult days. Then I started teaching at a local community college. I have been enjoying it. My "professional" life has some passion, again, after quite some time. I am thinking about going back to school, something that my wife says is "about time" and my father would be proud of. (A few years ago, while going through various papers and documents, I found a copy of a letter he wrote to President Bush (W) about me. I never heard from the President, but I realized that my father was, indeed, proud of me.) I think, in fact, I know, he would be proud now and I wish that I could tell him. Then again, I realize that he already knows.
Now, finally, I can think of him and miss him for who he was to me and not for who I thought I was to him. It has taken about six months. And, while the tears may be streaming down my face, there is great joy behind those tears.
Thanks for listening, dad. And, please give mom a hug.
