It has taken me 12 years to write this. Not because I’ve been keeping any painful secrets. Not because I’ve let grief paralyze me. I’m not sure why today became the day I would finally share some memories and release some of the words that have been tumbling around in my aging head all this time. The number 12 has some cosmic significance, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to Google up all that crap right now. Maybe it’s just because the older I get, the younger my dad was when he died at 64 on this day 12 years ago. But my heart is telling me that it’s because today I am literally 12 years away from turning 64 myself.
It was 2006. On his 64th birthday (March 29), we found out that after a good five-year reprieve, my dad’s cancer had come back. (In hindsight, I think he already knew it, but didn’t want us to worry.) Once melanoma returns, it shows little mercy. We knew that precious time was short. I soon made the five-hour drive from San Antonio up to my home town to spend as much time with him as I could. Five days after we got the news, I spent my 40th birthday curled up next to him on his bed as he ate ice cream. He jokingly bragged, “I guess I can eat as much as I want to now.” (Not that he had much of an appetite anymore.) Then he threw his hands up and laughed, “Hell, I might as well start smoking again, too!”
I had been scheduled to leave town for a conference a couple of weeks later, and I told him I was reluctant to go. He said, “Go ahead, Baby. There’s not much else you can do here. I’ll be fine…well, not really, but, you know what I mean.” On Easter Sunday, April 16, I hugged him and kissed him goodbye. It would be our last one. We said our I love yous as I blinked back tears and looked into his still-sparkling eyes. I told him I would be back as soon as I could, but I sensed that it wouldn’t be soon enough. For the first time in my life, I left the house I grew up in realizing that I soon would have to be the grown-up. You can’t be Daddy’s little girl after Daddy’s gone. I could feel the frayed strands of my 40-year-old safety net start to unravel, and I knew that it was beyond repair.
On Sunday, April 23, when I returned home to San Antonio after my trip, I called him to see how he was doing. He said, “Well, I’m still dying. Other than that, I’m fine I guess.” I begged him to hang in there until I could get back to see him that coming weekend. He said with a laugh, “Well, don’t be surprised if I’m gone before then. I can’t take much more of this shit.” I told him I wouldn’t blame him if he had to go ahead and let go. Sure enough, not long after he had been moved to a hospice facility, and before another busy weekend filled with more visitors and grandchildren noise, he decided it was time to let go. On a Thursday. April 27. With my mother at one side and his sister at the other.
He died on his own terms, just as he lived. He was grateful for the goodbye time that he didn’t think he deserved. He was proud of his children and he adored his grandkids. I don’t like it that he died relatively young, but it means the world to me to know that he died with contentment and a sense of satisfaction for a life well-lived.
The time I shared with my dad over those precious few weeks was an odd mix of both holding on and letting go. We spent time alone talking about a million different things, including what sort of funeral he wanted. I asked him if he had considered cremation. He said, “Sure, that’s fine with me. I certainly won’t care by then. But your mother would never go for it.” Later that night, I asked my mom what she thought about the idea. She said, “That’s fine with me, but your dad would never go for it.” We scattered his ashes the following Thanksgiving as we drove his old truck all around his farm with the six happy grandkids bouncing around in the back.
The Souvenirs
My dad’s Texas bar exam results from 1978. Apparently, he passed by only three points. This explains why he high-fived me in 1991 when I passed it by only one point. “You studied just hard enough,” he said. I love this not only because it’s a special piece of my dad’s history, but because it has his fancy signature on it. His hand held those papers as he smiled with pride and relief. As I hold them today, I feel that energy through my bones and miss him beyond words. And then I smile, too.
I was temporarily impressed to discover that my dad had been admitted to practice before the U.S. Supreme Court. Then I did some research and found out that just about any attorney who knows a couple of members of that bar can get one of these if they simply apply and pay the fee. I’m sure my dad did it to impress his clients. Now it hangs in my office to impress mine. Thanks, Daddy.
The Eulogy
(This is what I read at his memorial service on Tuesday, May 2, 2006)
I’ve had since Thursday to cry myself dry, so I should get through today all right.
After trying to die on us several times over the years, my dad’s practice at it finally made perfect. A few weeks ago, he told me how unworthy he felt to have been given the gift of time for goodbyes, time for sharing thoughts, memories, and feelings, time to tie up loose ends, and time to instruct us all to celebrate his life and not spend too much time weeping. With no reservation, he told me, “It’s kind of neat that I get to do it this way, and I think it’s happening at a pretty good time.” I frowned and argued that death is rarely convenient, but he said, “Well, you know, it’s springtime. The sun will be shining.” I added, “Yeah, I guess it’s good that it won’t interfere with the stress of the holidays.” He smiled and said, “Exactly.”
My first memories of my dad are of a time when he wasn’t even there. While he was in Vietnam, he and my mother would exchange messages on cassettes. As a two- or three-year-old, I saw my father as a tiny man inside a plastic black and silver tape recorder. He spent his days witnessing war from relative safety as a defense contractor in a helicopter, then up close on the city streets. He’d see and feel explosions all around him as he listened to my little voice ramble about my tricycle, or bubble baths, or chicken pot pies. Later he told me of the bittersweet ache, knowing that his little girl was safe and happy even as the world was in such pain.
I always say I went to law school not out of ambition but because my dad said he’d pay for it. That’s true. But it’s also because he correctly convinced me that a Ph.D. in literature would never get me out of traffic tickets, protect me from unscrupulous vultures, or allow me to be a thorn in the side of those too unfortunate to appreciate the value of the Constitution.
He encouraged me, Kelly, and Kenny to make the best of our lives, and he footed the bill for all of it. Since we were kids, he’d call us spoiled brats, but we’d remind him whose fault that was. We always knew he would’ve been proud of us no matter what, as long as we didn’t end up in a gutter somewhere. Which we probably would’ve were it not for the respect he commanded and the expectations we were afraid not to live up to.
He wasn’t nearly the curmudgeon he tried to be. He couldn’t wait for us to visit at the farm, but before long all the kids would get too loud and rowdy and he’d say with a wink as he glanced at his watch in the early afternoon, “Looks like it’s about bedtime.” As grumpy and blustery as he could be, he was an incurable softie who would tear up at the words, “I love you, Paw-paw.”
He and I spent many late nights at the farm, talking and sharing a bottle of wine or three. He passed on more pearls of wisdom and piles of B.S. than I can recall, but he did teach me: not to compromise my integrity even if no one would ever find out; to use my words and education to help those less fortunate, whether or not I make any money off of ‘em; to discipline my kids even if they hate me for it at the time, because they’ll love me for it later. He taught me that next to family, friendships are to be cherished and nurtured. He also taught me, when it comes to carpentry, not only should you measure twice and cut once, but utter as many well-placed curses as necessary.
He taught me it’s OK to laugh in the face of adversity. When my son suffered a liver laceration several months ago, Dad said, “Don’t worry, he’s got my liver, he’ll be fine.” His courage, grace, and humor always inspired us, but never more than it did since we got the diagnosis a little more than a month ago. When I looked at his devastating MRI report, I said, “Looks like your prostate’s still OK.” He smiled with feigned haughtiness and said, “So I got that going for me.” And he never gave up searching for that one true friend who would act as a substitute and go in his place.
He taught me life is good. Especially if you live by his motto, “activity, nap, activity, nap.” He taught me that wine tastes just as good out of a Styrofoam cup, crossword puzzles keep you smart, the best comfort food is bean and cheese nachos, and that it’s OK to have fresh lime margaritas with a Mexican breakfast, or even an American one.
On Dad’s last day in Hico, my nine-year-old son Luke curled up in the bed next to his paw-paw. Dad said, “I’m sure gonna miss my farm.” Luke replied, “But, Paw-paw, where you’re going, there’ll be more deer than you can shoot!” Dad laughed with tears in his eyes. I’m sure he could already taste the venison.
