In the many birthday cards my parents have given me over the decades, my father would often write the chapter of life I was entering. On his birthday in January 2018, I wrote on my Facebook page, “Happy Birthday, Old Man…here’s to Chapter 86!” I feared it might be the last, … and it was. Hence, the title of this blog.
Years ago, my father asked me to write his obituary. No doubt we were fighting at the time, so I retorted strongly, “You don’t want me to write your obituary!” He smugly asked, “Why?” “Because I would tell the whole truth, and you’re not gonna like that.” And off we went into another argument.
Well, today, I’m gonna tell the truth, but not the whole truth…so, please help me…God. I am going to use some of his very own words to sum up the man.
When I was little, I looked up to him….literally, of course. I felt safe when he was home. I felt he could solve all our problems. I thought he was the smartest man I knew. Then I became a teenager…and my parents didn’t seem to know that much. It would be decades before I realized how much they did know, how much they suffered, how much they sacrificed….
I loved my father, I loved him when I hated him. For years, he was my rock. I knew he loved me unconditionally, despite his inability to express it. In my fifties, I came to realize my father was just a man, a man fraught with all the weaknesses of being human, and then some. Weaknesses I share with him. Did I love him less? No, in fact, my heart grew to love him more, even when I knew he would never change, even when things were very difficult. I can thank God’s grace for that.
I used to look askance at the Serenity Prayer, thinking it was kinda trite….well, in the nine years I lived with my parents, I came to cling to the words, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…” God did indeed grant me his wonderful serenity. A serenity that enabled me to help in my dad’s final, difficult months, help with some compassionate patience (not all the time, mind you) and that also provided me with a wonderful, gracious final moment with him. “Until we meet again, Dad….”
The past couple years have been brutal. My father’s descent into dementia was exacerbated by his worsening COPD. The COPD is what did him in, but the dementia is where we lost him. One moment he was his rascally self, the next he was sickened with paranoia and anxiety…just wanting to go home. All of us, in a rousing, frustrated chorus for over a year, tried to reassure him, “You are home.” But, in his mind, he was not.
There’s only one story I’d like to tell. In the summer of 1983, I went to Belgium with a summer missionary group. As we all know…my father was not the “nice, quiet, peace-loving man” like John Wayne in “The Quiet Man”, a movie he loved. He was robust, loud, gregarious, pugnacious and often worried a great deal. Every family member can tell a story in which he helicoptered them, sometimes calling authorities to make sure they arrived at a destination and were all right. So, now, here I’m off to Europe. Pretty far away. I know he was a little nervous. So I wrote out a scripture verse for him with strict instructions to read it everyday, especially when he got worried.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” –Philippians 4:6-7
I had a great time in Belgium even though the first month I received no letters from home. I wrote home expressing my homesickness….and the following card – a card which I treasure now, a card that I copied and gave to my dad on one of his recent birthdays – sums up the man, sums up the things he loved. A card that could almost be a self-written obituary, if you will. This is the Dad I miss even today.
7/14/83 – Thursday – 7:07 p.m.
I just got home from work and your letter dated 6/31/83 arrived today in the mail. I know how you feel, I was overseas for almost two years & you always look forward to mail from home. I was homesick the whole time I was overseas. I even sneaked home Christmas of 1952 for a few days. You will also learn that San Francisco is the most beautiful city in the world, the Russian River Area & the land of the Redwoods is the most beautiful countryside in the world. (proof on the reverse side of this card.) And always remember “There’s No Place Like Home.”
We all miss you, especially your Dad, please let us know about your travel schedule, i.e. dates, time & destinations. In other words, when are you coming home? Your city, your block, your house, your room, your bed keep echoing the refrain “When is the Jibser coming home?” I keep telling them, she ate someone’s big toe & then she split. (ha ha!!)
The weather here has been gorgeous, quite hot at the River, 100° plus & 80° right here on the Coast. I’m looking at the Pacific Ocean right now, right outside our window, its almost sunset here now. It’s going to be a lovely sunset.
Joe Hurley’s father-in-law, George McKeever, passed away Sunday, he went all thru College (St. Mary’s of course) with my Dad, they were very close friends. I went to the Funeral Mass yesterday morning. During the Offertory, the choir sang “Danny Boy” & at the conclusion of the Mass when they carried the casket to the outside of the church, the choir sang “The Bells of St. Mary’s”, very, very moving, even though old George was 93, he was the last of the “Old Gaels”.
Well, anyway, that’s about all for now, I will write soon again, everyone says hello & all miss you very much. Hurry home.
Love, Your Dad
P.S. I read the card every night!
You’re really home now, Dad. But, your city, your football field, your river, your wife, your kids, your grandkids, your great-grandkids and the many, many friends you’ve left behind all miss you; but with a somber gratitude, we know you have finally gotten home. May you rest in that peace that transcends all understanding. We’ll be along soon.
Thank you, Dad, for all you gave me and my children. You’ve given me a legacy which includes being Irish, a San Franciscan, a river rat, a Gael and a Moore as well as the rich construction legacy you inherited from your father that I now enjoy. I hope your legacy and your parents’ legacy will be carried on by my kids and my grandkids. Aloha…
Free Pizza* recorded a song in my dad’s memory:
*(John Moore, Eugene Fentanes and Audrey Maloney)
9 thoughts on “Epilogue…”
Donna, that was exquisite and a perfect send off. How wonderful !! You captured your pops perfectly. May our Dads be together sharing a yarn and rolling with laughter.
You were such a good daughter to him. He lives in your heart, your memory and your beautiful words.
Thank you, Erin, for the comment.
Awesome! Pops is smiling.
Thanks, Rinard. 🙂
Beautiful. More people should read it.
Thank you, Mr. Clifford!
Your father loved your writings, He loved the “Boys of Summer” and he would have been overwhelmed with love and emotion with your recent epilogue.
What I find so wonderful about Bob’s recent passing is the love I have experienced and witnessed by his children and grandchildren- how very proud he would be to know how each of you have “stepped up to the plate”, how you have not been afraid to share your love and emotions with the world. My good friend, Bob, would be bursting with pride and we would talk about it over and over. I shared so much laughter with Your Dad and I listened to his rantings and when I didn’t agree, I listened because I respected his core values of truth, albeit his truth, his work ethic, his family love and devotion and his loyalty to what was right. We all miss him in our own special way because he gave each of us special memories to treasure. But I can tell you he accomplished his greatest goal by “going home” he accomplished having his children and grandchildren acknowledge his love and legacy that he never thought would happen. So Go Gaels, Go Bob you are over the finish line with the greatest victory of all, the love of your children and their stories and your story will live on. I am happy for you my dear friend. Thank you, Donna for putting the words so eloquently for all of us.
Thanks, Monica. He was larger than life. I appreciate that you were always honest with him which, I imagine, caused a lot of trouble for you. Thanks for always having our backs. And thanks for staying his friend even when times were tough. I know this Christmas was hard for you.
Thank You Monica ❤