When my mom died, at the very moment of her death, I was racing down the spillway to get to MSY, the airport in New Orleans. I was hoping to get to Indiana so that I could see her before she up and died on me. I didn’t have enough time, not nearly enough. I was in deep panic.
Well, I didn’t make it, but here’s what I still recall: the moment she died, I knew it. The car was full of a sense of her presence and of great joy, and I started laughing aloud remembering her.
Like the time we were looking at an old Musical Heritage album of Telemann flute sonatas. I’d ordered it. We’d waited to listen to the disk forever and ever (this was well before same day shipping was anywhere near available). Things seemed to take a really long time to arrive, as if they’d had to go through customs, just like you used to do with Wish before it went bankrupt. Anyway I unwrapped the package and then we saw the illustration on the cover, a man apparently just about to die from playing all twelve of the flute sonatas, all in a row. All Twelve. In a Row. He did not look at all well. No doubt, he never played the flute after that. (“Man, I could have started on strings. Or keyboards. But no, not me, I had to play flute!”) I think whoever designed the cover must have really hated those damn Flute Sonatas. Or used to date the flautist. In any case, the man in the image was clearly suffering from a hernia, or something.
Then, after we laughed about that a bit, we put the disk on. And then we heard this poor woman (I remember her name after all these years but don’t want to say it right here, really, she’s a really great flautist) having to suck in air with a really rough intake. Those twelve solo flute sonatas apparently required huge amounts of oxygen. And my mom and I looked at the image, and looked at each other, and heard the flautist sounding like some kid sucking at the last inch of soda in a deep glass, hoping to embarrass her parents at a restaurant. We looked at each other again, helpless, and burst into peal after peal of deep, gasping, uncontrollable laughing, roaring, catching our breath with tears running down our faces, then looking at each other, and bursting into laughter all over again. And then…. the flautist took another breath. That set us off once again.
Sometime during all that, my dad came in, looked at us trying to stop laughing,. watched us fail once again, and finally said “I don’t understand you two,” and left.
My cell phone rang right after remembering that. It was my sister telling me about my mom’s passing.
The more I remember those two times, the more I remember my mom. Millions of stories just like those, and a couple that were close to obscenity (that I insisted on telling during Mom’s funeral just to bother my brother and sister; I was drinking Prosecco for just about the same reason). God must have sent angels from heaven to the car, keeping me safe from falling into the water from laughing so hard all over again.
But this essay is called “Requiem for My Dad,” a much more down to earth person. Angels and all were great but definitely not for my dad. One night, years later, at around 4 in the morning (7 in the morning my brother’s time, who has never been able to figure out niceties like time zones. 7 am is both 4 am my time and way, way too early to call me under any circumstances). My husband and I are late sleepers; the rest of my family is not. I get revenge by calling my brother at nine pm, too late for him already, and midnight his time. Fair’s fair!
So at 4 am, my time, I get a text from my brother and it told me that my dad had died. It wasn’t unexpected at all. My dad was having both cognitive and mobility issues but the real issue was that he was 92 years old, and it was time. Also, he fell down, and being part of my family, managed to break his neck doing so. That’ll be how I meet my end: doing something stupid and watching the people who knew me going “yeah, figures. That’s just how we thought it would happen.”
I missed talking to Dad on the phone. He’d developed several bad habits my sister, his primary caretaker, had to stop. He would order stuff, lots of stuff, off of various vendors. My sister saw it all when she started cleared out the house. She said “Just how many cases of toilet paper does anyone need anyway?” She was furious at the amount of stuff they left behind. “Who needs 17 cartons of toilet paper?”
Apparently, my dad did. He was the kind of guy who would see a half empty gas tank warning on the car’s dashboard and immediately demand (not ask, demand) that we stop and fill it. I’m not that way. I’m the kind of person who says “oh, heck, there’s always another thirty miles when the gas light goes on,” which has mostly, almost always, been true. I’d keep driving and by the end he’d basically be yelling, “Stop, stop, we have to stop!” in his own deep panic.
He also turned out not to be the person who could teach me to drive. If he saw a car seven stop lights ahead, he’d start muttering “brake, there’s a car ahead, brake, you have stop, STOP, YOU HAVE TO BRAKE.” Our driving lessons ended when I braked hard, jammed to a stop and got out, making him take over, saying “I will never take lessons from you again. Ever.”
But I did. Not driving lessons. I needed my hubbie for that years later. But other lessons? Yeah, all the time. My dad was one of the last romantics. He loved my mom, and he loved all three of his kids, and though he neither understood us or her, he loved without ceasing. And all that yelling came from concern. The toilet paper was his response to growing up in the Great Depression but also a sign that he had taken care of his own, he had met his responsibilities as a husband and father. His favorite joke was pure Dad joke: “Know why I’m the UN of lovers? Because I have Russian Hands and Rome-ing Fingers.” Hearing that, my mother grabbed his hand, pretending to push it away but actually so she could hold it.
My dad was quiet and we didn’t talk much, but when we did it went deep, like the time after my mother died and we were talking about her and how much he missed her. All the time I was growing up, I thought they were going to divorce, and when they fought, they really fought. But I watch how my husband and I interact, and surely people think the same about us, and we’ve been together 35 years. I know better now about how love works.
Rest in peace, Dad. Keep laughing, Mom.
Note: An earlier version of this essay was first published in the Peninsula Daily News, Port Angeles WA