Remembering my dad

My dad died this week. I wrote this the morning he died.

I have never been so close to death. This morning my dad died. Peacefully. In his sleep. He drifted into nothingness.

As I lay in bed last night, I saw my dad’s face from the previous day’s video call. Alert, but also fading into dreams. His eye trying to focus. Pulling with effort from the interior to see the contours of the room around him. Like coming to after passing out, out of the echo chamber.

I have seen death before. When my dad’s mother died, I was there. In her den. She died in her favorite lazy chair. On Canon Drive. I was sitting next to her, listening to her labored breathing, but death was distant. It happened to her and I was there.

But last night, I was surrounded by death. I could not help but imagine being in my dad’s shoes. What was he experiencing? Was he aware? Knowing his life was slipping away? Present, but then skirting the surreal of dreams and unconsciousness. Was he dreaming? Was time slow and elongated? Was he experiencing days and days in his last moments? Did he know I was not there beside him? Did he know I wanted to be? Did he feel me there with him? Was he afraid? Having nightmares? Confused? Or centered. Was he comforted? I have never been so close to death.

We had months to prepare. My dad knew he had to prepare. I sat with him and walked through old photo albums. We walked though his European vacation after college in photos. I moved cabinets and files. The family came out to visit him. I wrote him letters. We settled our differences. So I know he was in as good a spot as he could be when his body started to rebel. I hope. I hope that, to the last moment, to the last weakened breath, he knew how much I loved him. How sad I will be when he is gone. And he is gone. Not being able to touch him when he let go — that has been hard. And now he is gone.

Now we remember my dad. Rick.

There are moments that are deep in my psyche. Driving over Kanan Dune Rd in his Porsche listening to Paul Simon and Cat Stevens- headed to the beach. Driving through Death Valley with Dennis joining the family. Fishing in Kernville. Him defending me to the vice principal in middle school. His love was never complicated.

My Dad was both a bull in a China shop and very modest at the same time. As a kid, his booming voice could be shocking and embarrassing. He could say the most crass things sometimes. Never with malintent, but embarrassing just the same. Once, in Manhattan, we went out for a nice meal. He ordered a pepper steak. A Steak au poivre. He got a pepper steak. He took one look at it and he told the waiter there was too much pepper on it and sent it back. Who does that? I blame my Nana for teaching him bad restaurant etiquette.

His needs were modest and not many. What did Dad need? A good salad. A basic grill. A haircut from Jon. Some quality time. Some sharing. Lois. Maybe a scotch. He was a straight shooter. When I was younger I was angry with his contentedness. I mistook it for lack of ambition. But dad was really ambitious. He just was authentically following his own path, building the life that he wanted. It is something to aspire to.

He seemed really content in his last days, despite his failing body. For years, he aways worried that he was not a good enough dad. Later, I worried that I was not a good enough son. In the end, I think we were good enough for each other.

I love you dad.