My father passed away in April.
I miss him tremendously. My father was my anchor to good; the one who kept me grounded to the way things *should* be. Whenever I called, whenever I visited, he was there, with the sweetest smile, the most ridiculous of corny puns, and all the time in the world for me—like that I didn’t live half way across the country; like I saw him every day instead of every 4 months.
He was kinder than most people take the time to be. And humbler than most people believe is real (he’d be mortified by this post, by the way… I’ll post it anyway.) He was also hard on me—the good kind of hard. The kind that when I said I was on the brink of something that felt overwhelming, would force me to talk out the alternatives however painful—to figure out a plan—to find a way to fix it, whatever it was. Or to maybe just accept the reality that it might just suck, and that’s how life was sometimes.
I honestly never remember him being angry with me or me being truly mad at him. Even in the ugly teenage years when everyone is angry with their parents. Not me and dad. We understood each other on a level that didn’t consist of words. He couldn’t tell you what my favorite food was, but he could tell you precisely why a particular piece of music reduced me to tears (he’d cry too…) Because while we didn’t come to the same conclusions almost ever, we went through a very similar thought process to get to our own individual outcomes. We didn’t think ALIKE, we just THOUGHT alike.
The days since his passing have included moments of mourning, for certain. But all in all, I can truly say that dad’s passing was a great, great blessing—the quick and unexpected end before the pain and medications came—the cure to his extraordinary loneliness before it became so sharp that he couldn’t breathe anymore. More than any person I’ve ever known, my father was at peace with his life, well before his death, and was profoundly faithful. I don’t know much about much, but I know that if anyone goes to heaven and lives forever in a state of peace and rest and contentment, it is my Father. He had always been ready for what’s next, even if those close to him weren’t ready for him to go just yet.
My father, ever the purist, full of trust and devoid of any earthly belongings (can’t take it with ya) didn’t feel the need for a will—his possessions were few; his debts little; and his trust that we’d know what to do about it when the time came trumped his belief in a lawyer and extra documents and the assigning of tasks and possessions. In the days since his passing, I’ve worked my way through his accounts; his bills; his meticulously hand-written accounts of everything (Turns out, I come by that naturally.) It reminds me of his humanity. It brings me the greatest of joy to see on his credit card bills that even until his last few weeks on this Earth, he was going to the independent art cinema to see a movie, his favorite bar for a cocktail, and his favorite restaurant for a good meal and a quality conversation with whomever was sitting at the bar. These were his routines and the things that made him happy. Thinking about them makes me happy too.
Two weeks ago, J and I went to a lawyer and got our wills done. Yeah. That happened. Now, I know this is a normal activity for grown up responsible people. To have a plan. To think about the unthinkable. To write things down on paper so that people don’t have to make tough decisions in our absence or pay our bills upon our passing.
And yet, neither this very grown up rational thinking nor my own sometimes frustrating experience dealing with my father’s estate sans will took away the harsh reality of what we were doing or made me want to be there doing it.
I’d feel like this regardless of the timing of our visit. But making this trip to the ol’ lawyer right before you get ready to send your husband into a war zone? Yeah. That’s as awful as it sounds. It’s like having to admit out loud the one thing that you’re trying really hard not to admit could ever possibly happen, could definitely happen: The thing you avoid thinking about, all you’re talking about for three straight hours. But we knew that it would be irresponsible for us to not do this. To not have a plan. To not have it all put down on paper. Especially now that Eleanore is in the picture. (Plus, I think the Service makes you do it once you have a family. Not the point, I know…)
Now, I know that lawyers are not paid to be, shall we say, touchy-feely. And I know that as long as we deal with the lawyers who are made available to us free of charge that we don’t have a whole lot to be picky about. Beggars and choosers and that whole thing, right? And I know that these lawyers deal with the whole gamut of service members to include the 19 year-old Joe who wants to leave his new Camero to his 17 year old girlfriend (too real?) I get it.
But dearest Lord. If that women looked at us and without emotion uttered any iteration of the phrase “Ok, you’re gone, he’s dead, Ellie’s dead, who gets your stuff/ pays your bills/ pulls your plug?” one more time, I was going to jump straight across her military issue big-oak-lawyer desk and make her eat my end-of-life plan. At a time when all I’m working through in my head (and my heart) is counting the days until J and I get to spend the rest of our lives together, having some random lady talk about what to do if that doesn’t happen…it was just too real. And mostly horrible.
But it’s done. And put into a lockbox, never to be opened again. For at least 40 years.
As I was leaving the lawyers office I realized that all I wanted to do in that moment was talk to my dad. Tell him about how insensitive that crazy lawyer lady had been. How much I didn’t want to think about death. How scared I was. But as much as I wanted to talk to Dad, I realized that I already knew what he would say to me. He’d tell me that sometimes things are hard. And not fun. And that the most important thing is that I was taking care of my family, and if I was doing what was best for them, then I was probably doing the right thing no matter how crappy it all felt. Then he’d remind me I’m a grown up, and I’m strong, and that this would all work out just fine. Part of a plan bigger than me. To have a little faith already.
And the end of my fictional conversation with Dad? “You know Angie, where there’s a will… there’s a way.” And he would wait in silence on the other end of the phone for the groan that I always gave when he made those sorts of horrible puns. Even through the phone, in my mind I could see his impish grin, so proud of himself. Even through the phone, he’d know I was shaking my head in feigned disapproval.
We’d end the call as we always did. “I love you Dad.” “I love you too.”
With Dad, having a will or not having a will didn’t matter. Nothing on a document like that contains a bit of what he left me. And I guess that a grumpy, insensitive, fast-talking, patronizing , lawyer-lady with her wills and paperwork and plans really doesn’t do anything to define my legacy either. What matters, today, as always, is taking care of my family—instilling good habits in the kiddo; making good memories as a family; showing love to one another, and making sure that Eleanore knows some of her PawPaw’s good jokes.
And a will? Meh. If it’s necessary and makes people feel better, then fine. Really, it’s just a document to provide some order in potential chaos. A peace of paper, as it were.
Pun definitely intended.
I miss him tremendously. My father was my anchor to good; the one who kept me grounded to the way things *should* be. Whenever I called, whenever I visited, he was there, with the sweetest smile, the most ridiculous of corny puns, and all the time in the world for me—like that I didn’t live half way across the country; like I saw him every day instead of every 4 months.
He was kinder than most people take the time to be. And humbler than most people believe is real (he’d be mortified by this post, by the way… I’ll post it anyway.) He was also hard on me—the good kind of hard. The kind that when I said I was on the brink of something that felt overwhelming, would force me to talk out the alternatives however painful—to figure out a plan—to find a way to fix it, whatever it was. Or to maybe just accept the reality that it might just suck, and that’s how life was sometimes.
I honestly never remember him being angry with me or me being truly mad at him. Even in the ugly teenage years when everyone is angry with their parents. Not me and dad. We understood each other on a level that didn’t consist of words. He couldn’t tell you what my favorite food was, but he could tell you precisely why a particular piece of music reduced me to tears (he’d cry too…) Because while we didn’t come to the same conclusions almost ever, we went through a very similar thought process to get to our own individual outcomes. We didn’t think ALIKE, we just THOUGHT alike.
The days since his passing have included moments of mourning, for certain. But all in all, I can truly say that dad’s passing was a great, great blessing—the quick and unexpected end before the pain and medications came—the cure to his extraordinary loneliness before it became so sharp that he couldn’t breathe anymore. More than any person I’ve ever known, my father was at peace with his life, well before his death, and was profoundly faithful. I don’t know much about much, but I know that if anyone goes to heaven and lives forever in a state of peace and rest and contentment, it is my Father. He had always been ready for what’s next, even if those close to him weren’t ready for him to go just yet.
My father, ever the purist, full of trust and devoid of any earthly belongings (can’t take it with ya) didn’t feel the need for a will—his possessions were few; his debts little; and his trust that we’d know what to do about it when the time came trumped his belief in a lawyer and extra documents and the assigning of tasks and possessions. In the days since his passing, I’ve worked my way through his accounts; his bills; his meticulously hand-written accounts of everything (Turns out, I come by that naturally.) It reminds me of his humanity. It brings me the greatest of joy to see on his credit card bills that even until his last few weeks on this Earth, he was going to the independent art cinema to see a movie, his favorite bar for a cocktail, and his favorite restaurant for a good meal and a quality conversation with whomever was sitting at the bar. These were his routines and the things that made him happy. Thinking about them makes me happy too.
Two weeks ago, J and I went to a lawyer and got our wills done. Yeah. That happened. Now, I know this is a normal activity for grown up responsible people. To have a plan. To think about the unthinkable. To write things down on paper so that people don’t have to make tough decisions in our absence or pay our bills upon our passing.
And yet, neither this very grown up rational thinking nor my own sometimes frustrating experience dealing with my father’s estate sans will took away the harsh reality of what we were doing or made me want to be there doing it.
I’d feel like this regardless of the timing of our visit. But making this trip to the ol’ lawyer right before you get ready to send your husband into a war zone? Yeah. That’s as awful as it sounds. It’s like having to admit out loud the one thing that you’re trying really hard not to admit could ever possibly happen, could definitely happen: The thing you avoid thinking about, all you’re talking about for three straight hours. But we knew that it would be irresponsible for us to not do this. To not have a plan. To not have it all put down on paper. Especially now that Eleanore is in the picture. (Plus, I think the Service makes you do it once you have a family. Not the point, I know…)
Now, I know that lawyers are not paid to be, shall we say, touchy-feely. And I know that as long as we deal with the lawyers who are made available to us free of charge that we don’t have a whole lot to be picky about. Beggars and choosers and that whole thing, right? And I know that these lawyers deal with the whole gamut of service members to include the 19 year-old Joe who wants to leave his new Camero to his 17 year old girlfriend (too real?) I get it.
But dearest Lord. If that women looked at us and without emotion uttered any iteration of the phrase “Ok, you’re gone, he’s dead, Ellie’s dead, who gets your stuff/ pays your bills/ pulls your plug?” one more time, I was going to jump straight across her military issue big-oak-lawyer desk and make her eat my end-of-life plan. At a time when all I’m working through in my head (and my heart) is counting the days until J and I get to spend the rest of our lives together, having some random lady talk about what to do if that doesn’t happen…it was just too real. And mostly horrible.
But it’s done. And put into a lockbox, never to be opened again. For at least 40 years.
As I was leaving the lawyers office I realized that all I wanted to do in that moment was talk to my dad. Tell him about how insensitive that crazy lawyer lady had been. How much I didn’t want to think about death. How scared I was. But as much as I wanted to talk to Dad, I realized that I already knew what he would say to me. He’d tell me that sometimes things are hard. And not fun. And that the most important thing is that I was taking care of my family, and if I was doing what was best for them, then I was probably doing the right thing no matter how crappy it all felt. Then he’d remind me I’m a grown up, and I’m strong, and that this would all work out just fine. Part of a plan bigger than me. To have a little faith already.
And the end of my fictional conversation with Dad? “You know Angie, where there’s a will… there’s a way.” And he would wait in silence on the other end of the phone for the groan that I always gave when he made those sorts of horrible puns. Even through the phone, in my mind I could see his impish grin, so proud of himself. Even through the phone, he’d know I was shaking my head in feigned disapproval.
We’d end the call as we always did. “I love you Dad.” “I love you too.”
With Dad, having a will or not having a will didn’t matter. Nothing on a document like that contains a bit of what he left me. And I guess that a grumpy, insensitive, fast-talking, patronizing , lawyer-lady with her wills and paperwork and plans really doesn’t do anything to define my legacy either. What matters, today, as always, is taking care of my family—instilling good habits in the kiddo; making good memories as a family; showing love to one another, and making sure that Eleanore knows some of her PawPaw’s good jokes.
And a will? Meh. If it’s necessary and makes people feel better, then fine. Really, it’s just a document to provide some order in potential chaos. A peace of paper, as it were.
Pun definitely intended.
So proud of the strength. And the puns. Especially the puns. :-)
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