A son travels when his dad is near death, and learns a lesson. Closeness has nothing to do with physical bodies.
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I became bilingual at the age of 65 in order to travel during retirement. Studying the language and culture in Mexico transformed my perspectives on being an American, and redirected my interests away from organizations to immigrants from the Global South.
Spanish fluency opens an offer to lead a group of Minnesota Episcopalians to build relations with our Cuban counterparts. The troubled U.S.-Cuban relationship complicates planning. The Cuban government must have our roster with fees paid 90 days in advance—September 30, 2013. I’ve complete the roster, pay the fees, and all is in order before the deadline. No changes are possible now.
Shortly after the deadline passed, my 93-year-old dad asks me to complete a once simple chore on our farm. Dad was always fit; jogged daily until his 70’s, and walked two miles until he was 90. Now he can’t walk 100 feet without stopping to rest.
Doctors diagnosed an aortic stenosis three years ago but he had no sign of it until now and his condition seemed abstract. Now his strength ebbs slowly like air from a balloon. H enrolls in hospice care with a prognosis of 90 days or less. The truth staggers me.
He may die while I’m in Cuba! It’s too late to replace me with another leader and we can’t postpone the trip because everyone has paid nonrefundable fees. No leader, no trip, no refund. I’m torn.
Dad fades in the two weeks after Thanksgiving. It’s hard to accept his life span is only a couple weeks. He’s calm and chipper about death, and says he is is curious about what happens next. We visit for the last time in mid-December, before I go to California for Christmas and then on to Cuba three days later.
“Enjoy your time in Cuba,” he tells me. “People are counting on you. I probably won’t be here when you get back,” he whispers, sitting in a recliner.
He extends his hand and smiles. We put up brave fronts; neither wants our final conversation to be a maudlin. I’m not good at saying good-bye so I tell him I love him, and leave. We part cleanly without unresolved issues, old wounds, or loose ends.
He is generous and wants me—no, he expects me—to meet my obligation to the group. Duty to others before self is his credo. I’m off the hook morally but not emotionally. Never again will I see the man whose name I bear, a man whose presence shaped me. I can’t imagine what or how I will feel after he’s gone.
For our daughter and two-month-old granddaughter —the next generations—Christmas is a happy occasion but I fake the holiday cheer to hide the sorrow that has already set in. I grieve alone and privately, as my parents did, because I don’t know how to grieve openly. It’s an old habit, I have no other, and I mourn in anticipation of his death. Waiting is hell.
I fly home after Christmas, pack another bag, join my group in Miami., and land in Havana the next day. We spend a couple days exploring the sights of Havana before going to the country and spending days with small faith communities and rural churches.
Shepherding the group keeps my mind off Dad by day but I’m alone with dull, aching grief at night. As the leader, I think it selfish to burden the others with my sorrow. If Dad dies while I’m there, I’ll tell them. Otherwise, not.
Grief as a strange yet straightforward state that clarifies things. Everyone grieves differently, and how I mourn my Dad differs from how I grieved for my mother. I grieve them differently because each laid a distinct claim on my heart. Grieving is a journey and, even in the company of others, the mourner travels alone.
I’m enjoying Cuba, meeting people, and listening to the world’s greatest music while the man who sired me lies dying in a Minnesota farmhouse. The contrast jars me and makes me irritable. I can’t shake the feeling I’m running out on him although we said all we needed to say two weeks ago. I pray selfishly that he hangs on until I return.
One evening, alone in our quarters, I’m reeling with emotional turmoil, my chest is tight, I can’t breathe, and feel I’m about to bust wide open, when Doug enters to get something from his bag.
He’s the only one in the group I know well. Our daughters were high school chums, we are both policy advocates, and our friendship rests on deep respect and bad jokes. A lawyer with an M.A. in theology, and a recovering alcoholic, he is wise, and I trust him.
“Dad may die while I’m here,” I tell him. “I’m not telling the others—I don’t want my feelings to be their concern. But I want you to know—just in case—just in case I seem remote or strange . I’m having a rough time.” My voice breaks as I talk, and tears well at the corners of my eyes.
“Thanks for telling me. It’s all right,” he says in a low, kind voice, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know your Dad and I know you. It’s okay. Right now you’re honoring your father with your emotions.”
His words are enough to hold me up. As the days pass without a word from my sister, I know Dad is still alive and I may see him again. When our charter flight lands in Miami on January 5, the eve of the Epiphany, I call my sister.
“Dad died at 10:30 this morning,” she says calmly. “He lasted longer than he thought, and got real impatient when he didn’t die on HIS schedule!” She laughs because Dad was always punctual.
My sister used to manage the hospice; she knows the ins and outs of death, and her words give me solace rather than sorrow. The tension, the uncertainty, the pressure vanishes before I finish the call. Dad is at peace, and so am I.
Death has a way of clarifying the identities of the living and the dead. For most of my life, I measured my success against his, the way I measured adolescent growth with lines on the kitchen doorframe. I should have stopped the comparison at age 16, when my height matched his. But I didn’t. It took a long time to find a way of measuring myself.
I look like Dad but lack his extroverted personality. I’m introverted, like my mother, but didn’t see it until she died. Now I see why, despite our outward resemblance, Dad and I often never understood each other fully.
Dad amassed a record of public service I can’t match but I can practice the precepts he lived out. “Always leave the world better than you found it,” he often said and backed it up with actions.
With my knowledge of government, Spanish, and Mexican culture, I work at helping immigrants avoid deportation, family separation, and gain entrance to college. In these moments, I feel Dad’s presence the most because the world is a little better for someone.
Photo: Flickr/Darrin