My son Jake died in a tragic car accident on June 13, 1998. 8 years later my father passed away on the same date. How could I ever get past the pain?
My father and I were never very close. I know he loved me in his own way but I longed for his affection and lingering conversation. Instead, his demeanor was tense and our dialogues were laced with, "Get to the point, Chrissy!" I grew up with the distinct perception that I was more of a nuisance than a daughter. After my mother passed away in 1985, other than an occasional phone call, holiday get togethers and birthdays were about the extent of our relationship.
When he was diagnosed with brain cancer in 2006, the doctor predicted his time was short. It's never easy saying goodbye to our parents, but even tougher when there are unresolved issues to deal with. Four to six months was not enough time to repair a lifetime of rejection.
I can remember when I was a little girl sitting in mass with my daddy. My legs not yet long enough to touch the ground, I swung them wildly back and forth as I admired my black patent leather shoes and white lace trimmed bobby socks that adorned my ankles. I must have constantly agitated my father because each Sunday he would put his hand on my knee in an attempt to stop my flailing.
“I’m ready to go, Daddy!” I whispered. “Is it time to go now?”
“Sit still, Chrissie!” he would scold. “Be patient and wait.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I would reply, and although I tried my best, restlessness interfered with my ability to comply.
Throughout my childhood and teen years, my father and I seemed worlds apart. I was easily distracted; he was focused. I always thought it was because he was so much older than me. But now I realize it probably had more to do with how we perceived our world. I grew up with peace and prosperity. He grew up in the depression with war and poverty. For years this disparity in our perceptions barred our ability to relate to each other. It would be a long time before I would realize just how much the adversity he suffered added to his character.
I've been told that men of my dad's generation are fighters. Growing up in the depression had given them a strength and resolve that those younger cannot fully comprehend. They were tough from years of struggling for food and houses. Frugal from years of tight budgets and job shortages. Grateful for everything God gives but they don't let go easily. They are fighters.
And fight he did. First for other’s lives during World War II and later for his own life in his battle with cancer. When cancer first struck, he endured three brain surgeries. At first his recovery looked promising, but eventually, hope faded. Finally, when Dad could no longer tolerate food, the doctor sustained his life with a feeding tube and called in Hospice. But the feeding tube was merely an obstruction to my dad and even though his hands were tied down, he eventually pulled it out. The doctor said it wouldn’t be long. But he was wrong. Dad was tough.
Cloaked in Camouflage
Stepping around the janitor’s sign, I stopped just short of room 432 and took a deep breath before I entered. The pungent scent of ammonia mixed together with the aroma of meatloaf. It made my stomach churn.
“Hi, Daddy. How are you feeling today?”
His head rotated in slow motion. “Oh, hello, Chrissie.”
I reached over to adjust his blanket. “Are you warm enough?”
He gave a nonchalant nod.
Does he even want me here? I thought. Or am I just in the way again?
I didn’t know if my father loved me. He never told me, nor was he an affectionate man. Consumed with his hobby of restoring classic cars, he was always too busy. I grew up feeling more like a nuisance than a daughter.
Dad thought I talked too much. “Get to the point, Chrissie!” was about all he ever had to say. The truth is that I did the listening and he rambled on with monologues about war stories that I had heard hundreds of times previously.
I longed for meaningful conversations. My life changed in a profound way when my two-year old son Jake died in a car accident in 1998 at the hands of a drunk driver. As irrational as it seemed, the tragedy brought purpose to my life. That’s when I started writing. I longed for my father to be my greatest fan but in his constant quest for more car parts, the Classifieds were all that he read.
The closer the brain cancer drew my father to death, the more my feelings of rejection intensified. How could I say goodbye to my father without his validation? When Dr. Hahn ordered a feeding tube, I sunk even deeper.
Dad’s feeble hands flailed about like a fish out of water as he tried in desperation to remove it. “It’s for his own good,” the nurse assured us as she tied his arms down.
Somehow Dad managed to pull the tube out. Then Dr. Hahn called Hospice and said it would only be a day or two longer. But for some reason…Dad hung on.
Almost two weeks later, the Hospice nurse called to check on me.
“How can he live like this?” I exclaimed. “His feeding tube has been out for over ten days now.”
“That’s not unusual,” Barbara explained. “The terminally ill have lost control over much of their lives, but one thing they still have command of is the time and circumstance surrounding their death. They often wait with quiet resolve until they feel a sense of completion.”
“But it’s hard to see him… just lying there.”
"We have no idea what is going on between them and God—unfinished business...preparation.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes, they are waiting on something,” she continued. “Sometimes they are waiting on a date.”
I sat up straight. “Really?”
I hadn’t told anyone. I was afraid that others would think my question juvenile or even morbid. I let out a deep sigh. “When Dr. Hahn said Dad’s condition was terminal, I couldn’t help but wonder…I asked God when my dad would die.”
“What did He say?”
“The only thing I heard was June 13,” I struggled to breathe. “The same day that my son Jake died.”
Barbara gasped. “That’s only…three days away.”
After I hung up the phone, I collapsed on my bed. I couldn’t deny that my father’s tarrying seemed deliberate.
June 12th arrived with its fateful shadow. After dinner, I packed a bag to stay overnight at the hospital.
“You should take this,” my husband John insisted as he pointed to a copy of the last message I preached to our single’s group. “Your dad ought to hear you speak.”
“Hmm…finally my turn for a monologue.” I muttered.
A blanket of gloom was waiting outside Dad’s room. “Hi Daddy,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “We are going to have sort of…well—a slumber party…I’m spending the night with you.”
His lungs rattled as he fought for air. The corner of his mouth drew upward in his attempt to smile.
“I brought something for you.” With mixed emotions, I put on my CD. Dad is finally listening to me, I thought, but only because he’s incapacitated.
Later, I curled up on the fold out chair and tried to go to sleep. The illumination on the digital clock cast a dim light on the wall. The room was quiet.
“Click.” The sound of the clock announcing the midnight hour seemed to echo against the backdrop of silence. It was officially June 13. Spellbound, I watched his chest rise and fall. With each hesitation in his breathing, I wondered, Is it time?
The night lingered and so did he. I wanted to stay the next morning, but I couldn’t afford any more time off of work. “Please don’t go without me, Daddy.” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”
A labored inhale was his only response.
Twenty minutes later, my weary body plopped down at my desk when my cell phone rang. “I’m sorry, Christy,” the nurse on duty began. “Your dad has passed."
Days later, my family gathered for my father’s funeral mass in the church of my childhood. The enormous brass cross hung over the altar like the heaviness hung over my heart. I realized now more than ever that I would never hear my dad speak the words I longed to hear. The ultimate rejection settled in on me like a thick blanket of fog.
Father McSherry cleared his throat as he began his homily. “Classic cars were John Tarnacki’s passion,” he began. “His love for cars began in World War II when he served in the 880th Ordnance Heavy Automotive Maintenance Company. John had a great eye for detail and a tremendous amount of patience to scour salvage yards looking for just the right parts.”
The microphone let out a loud shrill that seemed to emphasize his next point.
“John knew that restoration depended on attention to precise details. He used to say, ‘A car is not truly restored unless the parts are an exact match.’”
Exact match? The words ran through me like a run in my hose. Maybe that’s why it was so important for Dad to wait until June 13.
I had to admit. The thought of Jake waiting for Grandpa did make me smile. I could almost hear his gleeful greeting at the gate.
“Come on, Grandpa,” he would have shouted, his pudgy fingers tugging on Grandpa’s bony arm. “Come see my fort. It’s in the highest tree in heaven. Come on…come see!”
Dad didn’t know how to say that he loved me. He only knew how to show me. And now, like the last piece placed in a puzzle, the picture was complete. The words that I longed to hear all my life never came, but sitting on the hard wooden pew, my heart softened. My father heard me. He noticed. His love had been there all along—cloaked in camouflage.
I guess my dad is still in the restoration business, I mused. Never again will I doubt his approval. I finally have evidence of his affection.