I Miss You, Dad

I don’t know who said this old quote first. I’ve looked it up several times and there have always been multiple variations attributed to different people. So I’m just going to give you my spin on it:

“When I was 18 years old, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. When I reached the age of 25, I was astonished at how much wisdom he had acquired in just 7 years.”

I think most sons can relate to that. Most of us had that kind of relationship with our fathers at some point in our lives. I certainly did.

Today marks 10 years since my father passed away. I’m not going to use the word “anniversary.” That has a celebratory tone to it and it just seems inappropriate. Nevertheless, it is a date worth remembering.

I did not mourn when my father passed away. There were some tears, but they were few and they passed quickly. I did all of my mourning in the 2 years leading up to his death.

My father died of dementia. Dementia is an ugly disease. It steals your mind. My father spent his last 2 years in a nursing home as the dementia slowly consumed him. It is a hard thing to watch and you are powerless to do anything about it. I watched him go from a strong, self-assured, self-motivated man to just an empty husk of the person he had once been. I never knew who would be waiting for me when I went to visit him. Some days he was good. He knew who I was and he could talk to me. Other days, not so much. Slowly but inexorably, the bad days began to outnumber the good days by an ever-widening margin. He lost the power of speech. It used to frustrate him terribly. I could see that he knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t get his mouth to form the words. And he would get so frustrated. And all I could do was sit and hold his hand and comfort him. And talk to him, even if I couldn't talk with him.

Some days, when it was nice out, I would wheel him outside and we would sit and watch the cars go by. He loved cars and he loved watching them. Even when he couldn’t speak, every now and then he would point and say, “Nova” or “Camaro” or “old Pontiac.” And then he’d smile because he was always right. But he couldn’t talk to me. He could dredge up the odd word from the old days, but conversation eluded him. Eventually, I would wheel him back to his room and I would sit and talk to him and he would just look at me and listen. And then it would be time to leave and I would go and sit in the car for 10 or 15 minutes because I didn’t feel safe driving. I couldn’t see through the tears. It just killed me seeing him like that - and knowing that it was only going get worse and never better. So I would sit there and let it all pour out until the moment had passed and I was okay to drive again. Difficult times.

So when the day did finally come, I had no tears left for mourning. They had already all been shed.

You reach a point where you don’t even know what to pray for anymore. He’s my Dad! I can’t pray for him to die! I want him to live forever! But I also want him to live with a certain quality of life. What do you pray for when quality of life isn’t an option anymore? You can either die or stay alive and live an absolutely wretched existence. Those are your choices. Pick one. Eventually, you just have to fall back on, “Thy will be done” and take it one day at a time.

Today it has been 10 years. I will go and “visit” him this afternoon. I will sit on the bank of the stream where we sprinkled his ashes and I will talk to him. I have no illusions that he will talk back. But you never know. Did you ever get a voice that just kept whispering in your ear? We’ll just have to see. We will talk about the many passions he had in his life: golf, immaculately maintained cars and, most importantly, my mom who, now 95, is still going strong. 

The 10 years have flown by. You’d be so proud of your grandchildren, Dad. They’ve both done incredibly well for themselves. They’re both successful and respected in their respective fields. But most important of all, Dad, they're both really good, honest, caring people. Debbie and I are so proud of them and you would be, too.

Devon has established a reputation for herself as one of the finest music and band teachers in the province and someone who can build outstanding curriculums from scratch. Principals and Division Superintendents used to line up to try to get her to teach in their schools. But she's settled into one division now and she's doing really well. Greg estimates and manages home reconstruction projects. You would be so impressed by the man he has grown to become, Dad. He is very good at what he does and there doesn't seem to be a day go by when someone isn't trying to poach him to another company. Just like all the job offers you got when you left Keddy’s. Remember, Dad? But he is intensely loyal, and once he has made a commitment, he honours it. It’s a quality of which we are both very proud.

Things have gone well for us, Dad. You and Mom made sure that I got off to a good start and then just stood back and let me be me. I don’t think that I ever realized at the time just how lucky I was – or adequately thanked you for all you did for me. You were a good man, Gene Mechler. And a good father. I love you, Dad. And I miss you very, very much.