44/52 – Happy Birthday and Last Words

Mary Glenn and I recently read Liane Moriarity’s Here One Moment. The book's premise is that on a flight, an elderly woman stands up and then walks up the aisle of the plane, calmly informing each passenger of the date of their death and the cause of death. Strange for each passenger, but panic-inducing when the first three predictions come true, and the "death lady" becomes caught in a whirlwind of social media fame. I won't go any further and be a spoiler other than to note Anne Lamont's review comment: “A riveting story so wild you don’t know how she’ll land it, and then she does, on a dime.” Spot on.

The book made me think about what we would say as our last words if we knew exactly when the end was coming.

Thomas Edison looked out the window and said, "It's very beautiful over there."

Emily Dickinson whispered, “I must go in, the fog is rising."

Marie Antoinette, on-brand to the end, said, "Pardon me, sir, I meant not to do it." after stepping on her executioner's foot.

Nostradamus said, "Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall no longer be here." (Nailed the prediction.)

Of course, you always hope that your last words will reinforce rather than contradict everything you have tried to make your life about. My mother-in-law had a coda that was so true to her kind nature. A week or so before she died, her last words to Mary Glenn were, “I hope you all know how much I have loved you.”

Thirty-seven years ago, I didn’t expect to wind up on an Amtrak train to New York, shortly before the due date for our second child, but before child number two decided to make his formal appearance. But I also had not expected to get one of those phone calls. The late at night -- uh-oh, why is the phone ringing?-- phone calls.

"I'm afraid I have bad news. Your father went into the city as usual this morning and then just didn't come home. It took a while to track him down -- I called some of his work people and the police in New York, and nothing. You know how he's usually reliable as clockwork. I finally called the local police, and they tracked him down."

Uh-huh, my head nodding, a sense of dread rising by the second.

"He apparently had a heart attack on the way to his first appointment, and he got separated from his wallet, which is why it took so long to track him down. He's alive but in a coma at Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan."

As I stood looking over his bed at Bellevue, many things ran through my head. We had been home two months earlier -- our last out-of-town trip before the "no more trips" part of pregnancy. We were all standing on the back deck, and my father was bouncing up and down, up and down, on a portable trampoline. My mother's words echo in my mind and seemingly around the metal and ceramic of the hospital room, "Joe, be careful. You'll have a heart attack." Sigh.

While I went through the motions of pleading with God for a miracle to grant this funny and quirky man a sudden last-minute reprieve from the governor, I think in my heart of hearts, I knew it was not to be. I thanked him for being a great father. I uttered a few curses that it should all end at age 62. I hope he heard me. I waited for sudden last words or some unexpected twitch or eyeblink to signify that he knew I was there, but it was not.

As I left the room, looking back at him just lying there under a sheet, I knew that I would not see him again. That he would never meet his new grandchild. I would never get to ask him everything I should have asked him while I had the chance, but I never did, knowing that time would extend forever. Or at least for a while longer. Except that it didn't.

My dad died the day after William was born. Since then, William and my dad have been linked in my mind, sharing a single answer to two questions: “How old is William?” and “How long has it been since your dad died?”

The following is what I said at my dad’s graveside. The words were framed in William’s room all his life.

 Dear William:

On Sunday, you were born. And on Monday your Grandpa died.

Since you will never know your Grandpa in the way I had hoped, I thought I would tell you what I have learned from him -- and what I will try to pass on to you. I hope that in about 15 years -- when you're first trying to figure out how to a success in this world -- you will take a look at this letter and take a few minutes to think about your Grandpa.

Grandpa taught me to be a man. He was there to play catch when other Dads were not. He was there to do crazy things with my friends when other Dads were too busy or too dignified. He was strong, yet sensitive. He was firm, yet fair. And he taught me by quiet example rather than by hollow words.

Grandpa taught me the value of hard work and its proper place in a full life. He taught me that success in this world is not measured by dollars and cents. Without personal integrity, honesty, and kindness, monetary success means nothing.

Your Grandpa taught me a great deal about people. Treat people well, and you will never want for friends.

And most importantly, your Grandpa taught me to be a father. I never quite understood this message until you and Joey were born. Suddenly I realized that your Grandpa felt the same way about me as I feel about you and Joey. This simple lesson brought me closer to him, as I hope that someday your own children will bring you closer to me.

When you think about your Grandpa, think about his goofiness, his sincerity, his kindness and his loyalty. Think about a man who entered the world with little, but left behind a loving wife; ten sons, daughters, and sons- and daughters-in-law; and eight grandchildren. Think about a rare man who had no enemies.

I am angry that you and Joey and your cousins will never really know your Grandpa. I know there will be times when you and Chris, Danny, Katie, Kelly, Chrissy, Jimmy, and Joey will be confused about what is truly important in this life. And I hope that at those times, you will ask me, Nana, Mary Glenn, June, Bill, Joe, Karen, Jennifer, Jeff, or Jeanne about your Grandpa.

William. The events of this week will always link you and my dad in my mind. I hope that I can pass on to you half of what he taught me.

Love, Dad

As I've thought over the years about my dad's lack of a last word back in Bellevue, I've realized that last words are not necessarily always verbal.

Sometimes, they take the form of the lives of people whom you love that overlap for a day.

Happy Birthday Dub-Dub.

Peace, Pops.

——-

Immigrant Secrets would make a great Christmas gift for the father in your life. I promise.