Memories of my Father:
A Few Final Words

In the end, I came to know my father probably as well as I could have. We didn't always get along, to put it mildly, and we had many conflicts. It was hard for us to show affection for each other.

Whatever words we had, there always remained something unspoken. I'm not sure what it was-- regret, a need to reach out? It's hard to say. We had many conversations. We occasionally said what we needed. The relationships fathers have with their sons can be very, very complex.

He was a difficult patient, but he was also surprisingly resilient. He was a tough man, and remained strong right to the end. It was agonizing to watch this powerful, independent person be reduced to partial speech, developing immobility and physical difficulty, to become utterly dependent. But considering this, I thought that his state may have brought him a greater understanding of himself and his troubled past. I don't know.

My father grew as a person in his last few years, before he knew he was ill. He developed lasting friendships and renewed old family contacts. He reached out to my mother, and was able to express how much he loved her after the great strains they had experienced. And he found something in his last year with his family. He lost many of his inhibitions. He shared things with us that no-one could have expected, even just a short time before.

He made inspiring use of his last few months of life. Though never a religious man, he used a startling near-death experience to instill a new love of life in others. There was a type of catharsis in his illness: his battle with his own troubles and past seemed to recede, and he finally had some peace, despite the disease devouring his body.

I never thought it would be as agonizingly difficult as it was for me to watch him die, to watch him grow steadily weaker and then to leave us behind. After all was said, he meant more to me than I appreciated. Much more than simple words or our crude language can express.

I'm glad I was able to get to know him on more even terms as I grew. I've learned more about myself, about people and about attitudes from him than I thought I ever could. And, in the end, I learned a great deal of respect for the man that he really was.

He once said that he was afraid no-one would come to his funeral. How misplaced were his fears. There were almost two hundred people attending, and many, many more who paid him respects during the long hours of his wake. It was touching, and I think my father would have appreciated it. In his typically mobid and matter-of-fact way, he was deeply involved in the funeral plannings just before he died. It was hard speak with him when he spoke of his coming death, but at the same time it was refreshing to see that his traditional pragmatism about life in general remained.

I tried to speak at his funeral. I debated what to say, composed speeches, short eulogies-- and then abandoned them. I couldn't read what I'd written, in any case. I couldn't make out the words. In the end, I decided to tell the truth. Stammering, trying desperately to control myself, the true reality of the situation ferociously struck home as I stood before the assembly of his friends and family-- that I was saying goodbye a last time to my father.

It was the single most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.

I have a lot of mixed feelings about my father, good and bad, complex and also simple. His death affected me more than I think I know.

As the bagpipes played, as the hearse pulled away, my world shrank. There is no way to express the emotion that overwhelmed me when the car pulled away with my father's body inside, and he left for the last time.

I loved him.

Maybe we'll meet again, under better circumstances.

We'll all miss you.

Goodbye, dad.