Dying is a strange thing. Some of us, in an attempt not to think about it, push the idea of death back a day. And then hours later, when the sun rises again from the East, breathing life into a brand new day, we again make the conscious decision to push it back yet another day. Others, live their lives being suffocated by the idea of death, and spend wasted nights in hospital lobbies thinking their mild symptoms are a one way ticket to the morgue. And then there are those who hope to avoid death altogether, and build underground hideouts hoping to survive everything from a cataclysmic event, to a terrorist attack, zombie invasion, and even an invasion of aliens, similar to H.G. Wells’ 1897 scientific fiction thriller, The War of The Worlds.
For the rest of us, whether it comes from faith, personal experiences, or stories passed down from generations, we understand that death is just as much a part of life as living is. We can force the idea of death out of our minds, but it doesn’t make it disappear. And although many of us are comforted by the idea of a possible eternal life, it doesn’t necessarily make it any easier, especially if it’s a loved one nearing the end of their life.
The questions we ponder about death are certainly curious and peculiar. But the death of a loved one is an even more curious thing. From the age that we’re able to think for ourselves, whether we acknowledge and admit it or not, we all know that our time on this earth is limited. Eventually, one way or another, we’re all bound to end up being covered by a white sheet, signifying our time in this world is over. Despite this natural thought that most of us have come to accept, it always comes as a surprise when it happens to somebody we know or love. Truthfully, you never really do get used to it. Just when you think you’ve surpassed the stage of grief, something as simple as a scent, seemingly sets you back to the beginning, and your grief suddenly reappears out of no where, like a midday panic attack.
My first real experience with death came when my grandfather passed away in 2006. I wasn’t old enough, wise enough, or mature enough, to fully comprehend what what was happening, and after a long and heart crushing battle with brain cancer, my mom’s dad passed away. Although too young to have an accurate recollection of his final days, I would imagine his last dying words were expressions of love and adoration for the woman he not only only married over half a century prior, but also the woman who gave birth to his five children, and who would eventually spawn generations and generations of new life through grandchildren, great grandchildren, and even great great grandchildren.
One of the hardest parts of losing a loved one is you often lose the ability to express your adoration for them, to express to them the impact that they had on your life, and ultimately, how much you love and will miss him. Today, in a world ravaged by disease, people are losing the ability to not only speak to their dying loved ones one final time, but they’re losing the opportunity to even see them one final time face to face. With the inability to see or speak to a loved one in their final moments, it’s only natural for those grieving to question their dying loved ones last thought’s and feeling’s.
Six years after my Mom’s dad passed away, we unexpectedly lost my Dad’s mom, who by all accounts, was a saint of a woman. As she lay helplessly sedated on her hospital bed, with cords wrapped around her arms, it was obvious upon first glance that she was within minutes of leaving the world that she had made such a large impact on. She didn’t have any energy left to speak, but it became obvious that she had words resting on the tip of her tongue. With all the strength she had left, she signaled for a pencil, as if she wanted to write something down. Upon resting a pad of paper under the tip of her pencil, she began to scribble. Clearly, with no energy left, the attempt at expressing whatever it was that was on her heart in her final moments fell short, and became just that, a scribble. Minutes later, the machines that were wrapped all over her body alerted everyone in the room that the matriarch of our family was gone. My Grandpa, who had been married to her for over sixty years, leaned over, kissed her forehead, and told her that he would be joining her soon.
I often wonder what she was trying to say in those final moments. Perhaps, she wanted to tell us that she met Jesus. Or maybe, in her angelic way of doing things, she just wanted to tell us she loved us one more time. For months, this question tormented me. However, overtime, I came to accept it. I eventually realized that anything she was trying to express in those final moments, whether it was that she met Jesus, or her reassuring us that she was the worlds best scrabble player, or just simply telling us that she loved us, we already knew, as it was personified by her actions and love that she embodied throughout her entire life.
Less than ten years later, death gripped me in a way that would change my life forever. Being the stubborn man he was, it took a lot to get my dad to admit something was wrong. However, in the time since his passing I’ve come to realize that what I always believed to be his stubbornness, something I fought many battles against, wasn’t always an attempt at being stubborn. He was the most selfless man I’ve ever met. If he had a bad day, he certainly wouldn’t tell you. And if something was bothering him, you’d never be able to know. I don’t know if I ever saw my dad in a “bad mood.” Of course, there isn’t a human on earth who doesn’t experience bouts of bad moods, but if he was in one, he sure wouldn’t give you any hints that he was. However, he made no effort to disguise his stubbornness. In fact, the man sat for hours through a massive heart attack, and played it off as nothing more than heart burn. He refused to go to the hospital, and eventually only succumbing to the dire wishes of my mom. Upon arrival, he was notified that two of his three main heart valves were completely blocked, as the doctors told him it was a miracle he was still alive. Of course, even then, he played it off like it was no big deal. In the years since that incident, I came to the conclusion that he actually did know the level of severity. But as he did time and time again, he downplayed his concern, knowing he had three worried children and a panic stricken wife at home. And if you were to have asked him, he would have told you that nothing, not even a heart attack comes before his family. He was the oldest of nine, and his hard headedness was instilled in him as a boy. As he grew older, the hard headedness turned into a sort of stubbornness, something that my brother and I would often challenge, despite knowing this trait would without a doubt be passed down to the both of us. He most certainly was a stubborn man. After surviving both prostate cancer and a widow makers heart attack, like he always did, he played it off as if he knew he was going to be okay the whole time. Selflessly, his only thought was of his wife of forty years, and his three children.
A couple years later, on a cold day in March, he began to complain of a stomach ache. Of course, at the time, he brushed it off as nothing more than heart burn. Days passed. And then a few more days passed. I often wonder if he knew something more serious was wrong with him. Finally, unable to deal with the insurmountable pain, he decided to go to the hospital. If my dad was one thing, it was selfless. Despite his incredible pain, nothing prepared us for what was about to happen. As doctors came and went, it became quite clear that something wasn’t right. I don’t remember the exact order of the events that followed. Selfishly, I only remember nurse after nurse bringing me tissues to wipe my tearful eyes. This man, my father, my hero, the one who taught me how to love unconditionally, how to live fearlessly, how to treat others with respect and how to put everyone else’s needs above my own, was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer, that was so far advanced that the only medical option was to comfort him and let him die peacefully.
It was the next two minutes that would become the biggest regret of my entire life. As my father lay dying, wrapped in a hospital gown fit for a person half his size, he began to mumble words that originally made no sense to me. I sat there, along side my dying dad, wiping away what seemed to be a continuous fountain of tears, he spoke again. “How’s your baseball team looking”, he asked. Two minutes after finding out my dad was dying, the last thing I wanted to do was talk baseball. My tears continued. “Tell me about the Tigers. Any good talent coming up?” he asked.
The man just found out he was dying, and he wanted to talk baseball? I didn’t think much about it in the days that followed. I was heartbroken and the only thing I could think about was how I had just lost my bestfriend. After the funeral had finished, I was finally able to get away and take some time to myself. My mind raced constantly, full of questions that I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t sleep. I was lost. I had been lost before but it was always him that would bring me back. I couldn’t stop thinking about his dying request of me to talk baseball with him one final time. It instantly became the biggest regret of my life. Instead of talking ball, I selfishly walloped in my own tears. I should have just talked ball with him, that’s all he wanted. It was during one of my sleepless nights that I realized why he really wanted to talk baseball, a sport we bonded over for 25 years, at the moment he knew he was dying. As he saw the tears streaming down my face, he had absolutely no concern or thought about his prognosis, he just simply wanted to talk baseball in an attempt to sooth my mind and comfort me. I now realize that in that moment, despite the fact he knew he was days from death, nothing mattered to him except me and how I was feeling. A man’s last selfless act, in a life full of selflessness.
As I write this, I’m reminded of when I was a little boy and I would fall asleep on the couch. I’ll never understand how he was able to be so gentle with me, that when he would pick me up off the couch, carry me upstairs, and put me into bed, he’d do it all without waking me. When I was a kid, my dad was my superhero. At the age of 13, I entered the phase of my life where I thought I knew more than he did. In the years that followed, I realized I never knew more than he did, and in fact, the only stuff I knew were things he taught me. Even at 13, my dad was my superhero.
Almost immediately, High School came around. I felt the attention I garnered in the hallways as a two sport athlete as a sophomore in High School. I was 16 and thought this path I was heading down made me invincible. This path, which was created by excelling and starring at multiple high school sports, was originally paved for me forty years prior by my superhero, my Dad. I didn’t create this path, I only followed along his.
When you lose a loved one, and it happens unexpectedly, I’ve come to realize, it doesn’t happen all at once. Burying the body is only part of the closure process, but it’s certainly not the end. Over the last year, I find myself losing different pieces of him all of the time. I miss the scent of his old Tiger’s hat. I miss the hugs he would give me, where he’d squeeze me so tight, making me feel like I was all that mattered. I miss listening to him debate tv personalities, as if they were sitting in our living room. I miss his obnoxiously loud sneezes. I miss watching Michigan Basketball, and even miss sharing the agony of a lopsided Lions defeat. In fact, I even miss the way he used to slam every door in the house, something that used to drive me crazy. I miss his name appearing on my phone and I miss his voice that inspired me to always want to be better.
Reminiscing on these memories often distracted me enough where I’d go minutes without thinking that he was no longer with me. But it would never last, as out of no where, you’re hit with the realization that he really is gone and the only way to talk to him is through your prayers. And it’s at that moment, when feeling lost and alone, overwhelmed by an endless number of questions with only a limited number of answers, does a butterfly land an arms length away, and the scent of his pillows. rushes over you. They say, “Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.” In the subsequent months that followed, I’d pray endlessly, hoping my dad would give me some sort of sign that he was still with me. I would put so much effort into searching for signs of him, or listening for whispers of his presence, that when nothing tangible appeared, my heart would break all over again. I’d often think that I would hear his voice, only to quickly chalk it up as nothing more than wishful thinking.
In his final hour, I knelt along side his hospital bed, begging him not to leave. A lifetime of experiences full of love, would come down to these final few minutes. Although I had so much I wanted to say, the only thing that came out of me was my plea for him to stay, telling him how badly I still needed him. The next thing that came out of his mouth is something that I will remember for the rest of my life, and not only because of its sincerity and truthfulness, but because it would be the last words that he would ever speak to me. As the medicine slowly began to enter his blood stream, and as his eyes became heavy and partially closed, he quietly whispered, “believe in yourself, Eric. You’re more of a man than I ever was.”
It was then, at that moment, that his soul entered eternal paradise, finally freeing him of the pain that ravaged his body.
Sometimes I like to close my eyes and picture what he’s doing up in Heaven. I envision him playing catch with his dad, while his angel of a mother looks on, almost as if it were 1965 all over again. And as that thought passes, I instantly become hooked on the idea that he’s most likely up there looking for something to debate about. I take great solace knowing that he’s not up there alone. In fact, being surrounded by both of his parents, one of his best friends from High School, and his dearest friend throughout his life on earth, I would imagine that they’re probably sitting around a table, eating a pretty good meal, and anticipating the euchre tournament that will surely take place right after dinner.
I learned a lot following the passing of my dad. Although we’re told from a young age of the preciousness of time, it’s only a thought until you’re forced to face its inevitability. I’ve also realized that we don’t have time to worry about trivial matters. We’re on this planet for a very short time. So, instead, determine what’s important to you, and then focus your time and energy on fulfilling your purpose.
Learned through my own experiences, I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing is more beneficial than making a conscious effort to surround yourself with good people. People who make you laugh so hard that your stomach begins to hurt and you develop uncontainable hiccups. Surround yourself with people who try and see the positive side of every situation, while filling your soul with nourishment and positivity. There will always be people telling you that you can’t do something. Usually, it’s because those same people are unable to do it themselves. For this reason, I implore you to surround yourself with people who believe in you, the same way that you believe in yourself. In the end, it will be these friends that inspire and embolden you to achieve your dreams. And when you do finally reach that mountain top, it will be these same people encouraging and applauding you in your victories.
Last, I hope you don’t let things go unsaid. In a world where we’re all trying to find purpose, reason, and love, expressing what’s in your heart can change the world.
And although there will undoubtably be seasons of storms, struggles, and pain, which will result in fear and doubt, do not forget that life is just one big cycle of calm and chaos. Make it through the storms, and wake up to a rainbow.
Today, I know my dad’s looking down on the family he built, beaming with pride and overwhelmed with feelings of elation. He raised three college graduates, two who have started their own families. He passed away before ever getting the chance to actually bond with his grandchildren. And while he didn’t necessarily get the opportunity to know his grandchildren, there’s no question that as they get older, they will get to know their grandfather through the three of us. He was a great man. I aspire to be half the father, half the husband, and half the person that he was.
R.I.P. Dad.
P.S. One day we’ll finish that talk about baseball, I promise. I love you.
Photocredit : iStockphoto
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
—
Photo credit: iStockPhoto.com