Sixty-Two is two young. That’s the truth. I would love to give you all the explinations and reasons for that. I would love to get into human life-spans and what is consciousness and what makes us tick. I am guessing I don’t have those types of philosophy in my right now, and I guess if you read between the lines, you might find some of this, or maybe in fact, I might be able to find some of this as well, but for the time being, at this moment, I will say sixty-two is too young.
At sixty-two you have much life yet, at least another good twenty years. In many situations and jobs sixty-two isn’t even a retirement age. Sixty-two is supposed to be when you are going out on a cruise around the Meditarrianian. Sixty-two is when you start thinking about becoming a snow-bird and having a four month house in Florida or Arizona. Sixty two, yes is the twilight of your life, but it is time to ride into the sunset peacefully and slowly. Notice the word slowly.
At thirty-two you are supposed to be at the prime of your life and just kicking things into gear. You have now reached a point that you and your parents can communicate about things in life. You understand where they came from and where they are going. It is your time to shine, you should be straigting out everything that you’ve ever had concerns about. There are many things that you should be doing at thirty-two. But there are also things that you should not be doing at thirty-two.
There are also things you shouldn’t be doing at sixty-two.
One of the things that you shouldn’t be doing at thirty-two is putting your parent in the ground. Especially when your parent is sixty-two.
Sadly enough, this is something I just had to do almost three months ago.
Now, I’m not going to start saying that my story is something amazing, or important. Yet, at the same time my story is very amazing and very important. I am wondering why I am even going to try and accomplish to write this, or how this is going to come out, but the truth is this is something I feel like I need to do. I am quite aware of all of the greivence books out there, and all of the “I love my dad” books. Hell, I’ve been reading a few as I write this, but the truth is, I do love my dad. The truth is our story is unique to us, and I want to share that story to the world.
I will admit, I had a very fortunate life growing up. I am not going to go on about how pitiful my life was and how strong and great I was to overcome amazingly hard circumstances, because that isn’t the truth. I was raised very middle-class from a middle-class working family in the mid-west. A lot of mid, aka average talked about there. I went to a Big Ten school in-state and graduated with bachelor degrees, and went into the world looking to join the workforce.
This is exactly how my dad would have wanted it. At my dad’s funeral one of my friends in an eulogy talked about how “Michigan” my dad was. I had never thought about how “Michigan” my dad was until that statement, but he was. He worked for the auto industry, he loved to go up north, he loved Michigan sports teams, and I think he even liked the very testy weather that the mitten state has.
He worked hard to make sure that I wasn’t “Michigan”, at least I think. I think he knew I had larger dreams and goals than the suburban life of an auto worker. Maybe the years of sixty hour weeks and first shift hours is something that slowly made him tired, and he wanted more for me. Regardless, ever since I was born I knew I was going to college, and I knew that my parents would sacrifice everything if needed be to get me into a University. They didn’t have to sacrifice that much, at least from what I could tell, but they did instill that into me, that I was going to go to school, so I didn’t have to be my dad.
This would be the reason that I stood heartbroken in a Michigan hospital room, unemployed, just being laid off from not one, but two jobs, spending my last two weeks with my father. Now, I could get all Mitch Albom on you, and say that in those two weeks I learned some heartfelt lessons, or some great insight to life, but honestly, I didn’t. I realized something I already knew, and that was how much I loved my dad, and how much I was going to miss him.
We watched TV, talked about what my wife and I did during the day, asked him if he thought the Tigers would win a game, and he made some Budwieser frogs joke, and that was all we really did. We hung out. Many people told me that I should feel lucky that I didn’t have any employment to hold me back from these moments, which I was. I got to spend as much time with him while I had a chance, something that many people never get. Yet, knowing how much he toiled and struggled with at work to be able to send me to get my education, it left me feeling saddened, and disappointed in myself.
I did learn that everything would be ok. He told me that. He told me that everything would be ok. I still don’t believe him, and I am three months out. It probably will, I am a worrywart, which I pick up from my mom and not him, but it is difficult at the time. Those two weeks of watching my father die was probably and probably will be the hardest days of my life, and sadly I have had some hard times in my life. My father was the third person extremely close to me that I had lost in the past three years, and this one would prove to be the hardest.
I will admit my luck. My mom and dad were just coming into that age where they were becoming my friends. We would go to Las Vegas together, eat together, and share stories. There is something magical when you reach a point where your parents become your friends. I feel bad for the people that never reach that, yet I understand that every situation is different, and I was just amazingly blessed to be born to two wonderful people.
Yet, this is a double-edge sword. When you lose your dad quickly after you realize that you have become friends with him, it cuts your heart into pieces. I wish I could tell you how long it takes to heal those pieces, but I can’t. I haven’t reached that point yet. Yes, I know that people grow up in broken homes, and I know that people never reach a complete understanding or love of their parents until well after they are passed. My heart goes out to those people, it really does. For a second, I try and find a way to make those moments easier, and think of situations like that, but that would just be worse. I am privliaged to be able to even become my father’s friend, and to realize at a young age that he was a good guy.
And a good guy he was. I was amazed at the turn out of the funeral and how many people said great things about my father, and you could tell that it was the real deal, and not just some crap that people say at funerals when someone passes. I never understand why people do that, I understand paying your respect and not speaking ill of the dead, but at the same time, people can tell when people are sincere or not, even in a weakened state of losing someone.
This love at my dad’s funeral was real.
The last time I saw my dad at a funeral home before his own was two years earlier, when my grandfather (my mom’s father) passed. I remember a gesture that my dad gave to my grandfather as he laid in wake. He grabbed his folded hands and held them in his, and slowly squeezed them. He went right before me giving final respects, and I noticed this for some reason. That look on his face, and his gesture of respect, and it stuck in my mind. Maybe he knew in a few months he would be diagnosed with something that would in two years have him joining my grandfather. Maybe putting my mom’s dad in the ground was harder than putting his own father in ground. Or maybe he was just a classy man and was truly moved at the time. I could also be just reading way too much into that gesture. Regardless, I made sure to give my father the same gesture while at his casket. I still can picture it clearly, and holding the waxy skin, not so much how I imagined a dead person feeling, and this was a big deal for me, since funerals, caskets, and wakes freak me out. I grasped my father’s hands and told him once again that I loved him.
This book might be a form of healing for me, and maybe a form of healing for you. It doesn’t have a clear direction yet, just a collection of stories and memories that I feel made me and my dad special. I have a need and want to get as memories written down on paper before they just fade in to obscurity and hazy pictures in my mind as many of my other memories as I get older. Maybe through this process I can figure out what my father is all about, and learn more about him, or even myself, which is someone I would truly like to discover at this point.
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