What a beautiful tribute to your dad. I hope this comment brings you additional comfort: my dad also died of a PE. In a hospital under doctor’s care, with a nurse right there. It happened quick. His last words were “I’ll be okay,” which is an amazing set of last words coming from the man who discovered that Cuba was receiving missiles from Russia, and he felt existential growing desperation with every passing day that the Kennedy admin refused to pay attention to his increasingly urgent messages coming up from Miami.
A man who was one of only a handful of people on the planet who knew that we could all die any second closes out his own life with a PE in a suburban DC hospital telling the nurse, “I’ll be okay.”
My brother, who was the first of the family to see him, told me that the look on his face told my brother that he saw something amazing before he died. I hope it was a band of angels or dearly departeds coming for to carry him home.
I get a lot of comfort from that thought. It was quick and fearless, he had company on the journey to his next assignment.
So hopefully these thoughts bring you comfort too. No fear. No pain. And his eyes were resting on your son’s photo.
Beside our fireplace is a big wood storage nook. We have one rule, and everyone in the family knows the rule and why it's our rule. The rule is, never burn all the wood in the nook, never. My wife's dad helped me fill it with wood one day, and the next day we went fishing, fly fishing in a drift boat. He was rowing when suddenly he got in trouble, keeled over and was dying. I grabbed the oars and got us straightened out and got to shore. I held him in my arms but there was nothing I could do. He died in my arms. The worst day, the worst experience of my life, worse than when my own parents died.
Turns out he had a 90% occluded left main coronary artery, completely unsuspected, and he had a classic heart attack, probably brought on by the strain of the rowing.
So we never burn all the wood in the nook, because that means that there is still some wood in there that Hugh put there, so in that little way he's still a part of our life. So I know exactly why that bottle of beer is there in your fridge.
As several here have already said, your tribute to your father is moving and beautiful. At the risk of sounding trite, I firmly believe that somewhere, somehow, he knows how deeply fortunate he was to have your love.
My wife died almost 3 years ago (on 4/20, to be precise), I had just spent several hours in the hospice with her, before being sent home by the nurses. She had multiple brain tumors and hadn't be communicative for almost 2 weeks. I had sat by her bed day after day telling her how much I loved her, and hoping that she could hear me. I arrived home and when I pulled into the garage, my phone rang...it was the hospice. Sometime in the 10 minutes it took me to get home, Mary had passed. She was physically comfortable, surrounded by some of the finest people it has ever been my privilege to know who were dedicated to taking care of her.
I am writing this not to hijack your own comments, but to thank you for sharing them. I told my wife every day that I loved her (just as you did when you spoke with your father), and I hope that she heard me, before and after the tumors took her from me. Your tribute to your father showed your love of him, and (perhaps more importantly) how much his love of you is now a part of who you are and the life that you have built going forward. I realize that may not be a tremendous comfort right now, but I can promise that as time goes on you will find some measure of peace with it. Your father has found his destiny, and part of that is what he has left in you and your family....that bottle of beer is a symbol of the link between you...
Whew. What a way to start the day with the reminder to love. Time here is short and the only thing that really matters is love. I thank you for sharing your story and it hit me right in the feelers. Makes me sad I never got to meet your dad and grateful for the time with mine.
A mentor of mine told me that grief is like a stone. When you first experience it, it takes up all of you. You are the stone. As time goes on, you grow around the stone and become a new you with that stone of grief inside. It never goes away and is always a part of you. It is a comfort to have that stone and also know that you are more now than you were then. There is never a right way or wrong way to live with your stone. There is only your way.
Beautiful tribute. Tha beer in the back of the fridge clearly holds a special place in your heart as a memorial to your dad. Eating cheesecake with chopsticks is something I'm confident my friend's husband would have done. He died in June 2021 and memories of his zest for life still bring smiles.
I, too, used to go daily to the Spring Cafe, although I was usually on a break from work around the corner. It's nice to think I could have crossed paths with your dad in such a welcoming place.
I hope your memories of your dad continue to bring you strength and solace.
Thank you so much for sharing this. I met him at your wedding but did not know him. It is a beautiful recounting of what sounds like a very special relationship and it warms my heart. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me think of those I’ve lost, like my brother and father both gone about five years ago as well. Keep holding on to those you love, the beautiful moments, and the beer in the back of the fridge.
That was honest and raw and beautiful. I lost my dad the week before you lost yours and I too will never be the same, you described so much of what I have felt at one time or another over the last 5 years. It seems like yesterday and it seems like forever. But as you wrote, it still hurts because the love was indeed real.
My father died in 1997 at the hospital the night before he was to have a triple bipass surgery. He'd had a heartattack in his mid 50's and being a double dipper (career Air Force office/Federal scientist) he was able to retire right then and there. I never understood why did that when he had 3 kids in college and to more going in the near future. I do now. I'm 60. He never got to see me become a cabinetmaker (his grand father was one)...now I'm a master cabinet maker and I have learned in the 25 years since his death to build furniture that will be used for decades...wish he could have seen that...
My father died in 1997 at the hospital the night before he was to have a triple bipass surgery. He'd had a heartattack in his mid 50's and being a double dipper (career Air Force office/Federal scientist) he was able to retire right then and there. I never understood why did that when he had 3 kids in college and to more going in the near future. I do now. I'm 60. He never got to see me become a cabinetmaker (his grand father was one)...now I'm a master cabinet maker and I have learned in the 25 years since his death to build furniture that will be used for decades...wish he could have seen that...
What a beautiful tribute to your dad. I hope this comment brings you additional comfort: my dad also died of a PE. In a hospital under doctor’s care, with a nurse right there. It happened quick. His last words were “I’ll be okay,” which is an amazing set of last words coming from the man who discovered that Cuba was receiving missiles from Russia, and he felt existential growing desperation with every passing day that the Kennedy admin refused to pay attention to his increasingly urgent messages coming up from Miami.
A man who was one of only a handful of people on the planet who knew that we could all die any second closes out his own life with a PE in a suburban DC hospital telling the nurse, “I’ll be okay.”
My brother, who was the first of the family to see him, told me that the look on his face told my brother that he saw something amazing before he died. I hope it was a band of angels or dearly departeds coming for to carry him home.
I get a lot of comfort from that thought. It was quick and fearless, he had company on the journey to his next assignment.
So hopefully these thoughts bring you comfort too. No fear. No pain. And his eyes were resting on your son’s photo.
Beats the hell out of assisted living.
Beside our fireplace is a big wood storage nook. We have one rule, and everyone in the family knows the rule and why it's our rule. The rule is, never burn all the wood in the nook, never. My wife's dad helped me fill it with wood one day, and the next day we went fishing, fly fishing in a drift boat. He was rowing when suddenly he got in trouble, keeled over and was dying. I grabbed the oars and got us straightened out and got to shore. I held him in my arms but there was nothing I could do. He died in my arms. The worst day, the worst experience of my life, worse than when my own parents died.
Turns out he had a 90% occluded left main coronary artery, completely unsuspected, and he had a classic heart attack, probably brought on by the strain of the rowing.
So we never burn all the wood in the nook, because that means that there is still some wood in there that Hugh put there, so in that little way he's still a part of our life. So I know exactly why that bottle of beer is there in your fridge.
As several here have already said, your tribute to your father is moving and beautiful. At the risk of sounding trite, I firmly believe that somewhere, somehow, he knows how deeply fortunate he was to have your love.
My wife died almost 3 years ago (on 4/20, to be precise), I had just spent several hours in the hospice with her, before being sent home by the nurses. She had multiple brain tumors and hadn't be communicative for almost 2 weeks. I had sat by her bed day after day telling her how much I loved her, and hoping that she could hear me. I arrived home and when I pulled into the garage, my phone rang...it was the hospice. Sometime in the 10 minutes it took me to get home, Mary had passed. She was physically comfortable, surrounded by some of the finest people it has ever been my privilege to know who were dedicated to taking care of her.
I am writing this not to hijack your own comments, but to thank you for sharing them. I told my wife every day that I loved her (just as you did when you spoke with your father), and I hope that she heard me, before and after the tumors took her from me. Your tribute to your father showed your love of him, and (perhaps more importantly) how much his love of you is now a part of who you are and the life that you have built going forward. I realize that may not be a tremendous comfort right now, but I can promise that as time goes on you will find some measure of peace with it. Your father has found his destiny, and part of that is what he has left in you and your family....that bottle of beer is a symbol of the link between you...
Thank you...
Whew. What a way to start the day with the reminder to love. Time here is short and the only thing that really matters is love. I thank you for sharing your story and it hit me right in the feelers. Makes me sad I never got to meet your dad and grateful for the time with mine.
A mentor of mine told me that grief is like a stone. When you first experience it, it takes up all of you. You are the stone. As time goes on, you grow around the stone and become a new you with that stone of grief inside. It never goes away and is always a part of you. It is a comfort to have that stone and also know that you are more now than you were then. There is never a right way or wrong way to live with your stone. There is only your way.
Thanks for this. It reminded me of my Dad, with whom I had a similar relationship. I miss him everyday as I know you miss your father.
Beautiful tribute. Tha beer in the back of the fridge clearly holds a special place in your heart as a memorial to your dad. Eating cheesecake with chopsticks is something I'm confident my friend's husband would have done. He died in June 2021 and memories of his zest for life still bring smiles.
I, too, used to go daily to the Spring Cafe, although I was usually on a break from work around the corner. It's nice to think I could have crossed paths with your dad in such a welcoming place.
I hope your memories of your dad continue to bring you strength and solace.
Thank you so much for sharing this. I met him at your wedding but did not know him. It is a beautiful recounting of what sounds like a very special relationship and it warms my heart. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me think of those I’ve lost, like my brother and father both gone about five years ago as well. Keep holding on to those you love, the beautiful moments, and the beer in the back of the fridge.
That was honest and raw and beautiful. I lost my dad the week before you lost yours and I too will never be the same, you described so much of what I have felt at one time or another over the last 5 years. It seems like yesterday and it seems like forever. But as you wrote, it still hurts because the love was indeed real.
Thanks for sharing.
Just remember, whenever grief comes calling? That you're right on time.
Beautiful tribute.
Beautiful story.
My father died in 1997 at the hospital the night before he was to have a triple bipass surgery. He'd had a heartattack in his mid 50's and being a double dipper (career Air Force office/Federal scientist) he was able to retire right then and there. I never understood why did that when he had 3 kids in college and to more going in the near future. I do now. I'm 60. He never got to see me become a cabinetmaker (his grand father was one)...now I'm a master cabinet maker and I have learned in the 25 years since his death to build furniture that will be used for decades...wish he could have seen that...
Beautiful story.
My father died in 1997 at the hospital the night before he was to have a triple bipass surgery. He'd had a heartattack in his mid 50's and being a double dipper (career Air Force office/Federal scientist) he was able to retire right then and there. I never understood why did that when he had 3 kids in college and to more going in the near future. I do now. I'm 60. He never got to see me become a cabinetmaker (his grand father was one)...now I'm a master cabinet maker and I have learned in the 25 years since his death to build furniture that will be used for decades...wish he could have seen that...
Of course he knew you loved him
thanks Kelly - this is is just so true and lovely.
I’m in tears ... at the bar I’m reading this in. Thank you for sharing he sounds like an amazing man.
Im not crying, you’re crying.