COPING WITH LOSS

It Sucks a Little When You Don’t Get to Say Goodbye

Okay, it sucks a lot. What would you say to your parent, your child, your spouse, or your friend if you knew it would be the last time you’d ever hear their voice?

For the sake of context, my father passed away on September 24, 2017 — he was 83 years old and I was 37. I have a vivid memory of him lying on his hospital bed, his mouth wide open, wires and tubes every which way, and each of us siblings taking our turn to hold his cold hand tightly and say our goodbyes — to our lifeless dad.

I was never able to give him a proper sendoff.

He passed away from the complications of Type-2 diabetes. Diabetes is an ugly, painful, drawn-out way to go. His body wasn’t able to handle the trauma of his final amputation and his vital functions shut down.

I’ll spare you the details of his prior amputations. and the suffering he endured for so many years. I may have to process the complexities of his physical trials at some point in the future, but we’ll save that for another day.

I do however want to illustrate how much it truly sucks to lose a parent and never be able to say goodbye. Every time his birthday comes around, or my parent’s anniversary arrives, or a picture shows up on social media, or I see his picture on the fridge, the thoughts of losing him that night come racing back along with a provoking question —

What would I have said to him that night had I been given the chance?

In all honesty, I have to fight back an even more haunting, painful question — why didn’t I get to say goodbye? I know things happen, people lose loved ones all the time without ever getting to say those final words. But the sting of that question comes back again and again, as I’m certain it does for so many others. But I catch myself in those moments and rephrase the question.

What would you say to your own parent, your child, your spouse, or your friend if you knew it would be the last time you’d ever hear their voice?

As I’ve pondered this question over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that my own answer would be centered on two important messages to him — gratitude, and promises.

So, for my Dad, if in some heavenly realm, some reality I can’t comprehend, or by some miracle he would be able to read these words, I think I know now what I would say to him in his final moments.

It likely would go a little something like this…

On gratitude

I would start off by thanking him for teaching me to cherish and respect my mom — to look to her with love, caring, and compassion as he did, for her sacrifices she made to raise her kids.

I would thank him for never abusing her and never calling her awful, hurtful names. I would thank him for the way he always looked at her, with a fondness and tenderness that could only come from a husband that was completely infatuated with his sweetheart. She was his queen.

I would thank him for being a good example of marriage — they made it 54 years, nearly 20,000 days together. I would thank him for the man he was to his wife so that I could emulate that and be a good man for my wife — and I can only hope I am living up to those standards.

I would express my gratitude to him for the time and attention he gave me as his son so that I might go on to give my own children the time and attention they deserve. I would thank him for listening, sharing his advice, playing, lecturing when necessary, and appropriately reprimanding me when I needed it (which was often).

I would thank him for showing me what it means to be a continuous learner, to put in hard, honest work, to get an education, and to have hobbies. He’d know the gratitude I felt for showing me what it means to give your best self to your work and to put passion and energy into your dreams.

I would thank him for the reminder to have a sense of humor, to captivate others with thought-provoking stories and belly-laugh-inducing jokes.

I’d make sure he knew that I noticed how much he loved movies, culture, and music — that I saw him cry when he listened to a good song, or watched a romantic movie, or watched the Maori people perform the Haka.

I’d thank him for being vulnerable and helping me gain a love for music, movies, and culture as well. I’d thank him for listening to my music, for caring enough to give it a listen, even if he said it sounded like the band was banging on garbage cans.

I would thank him for his years of military service and for protecting the freedoms of our wonderful country. I would thank him for the countless hours of volunteer service he selflessly gave. I would remind him how inspiring it was to watch him serve his community, all-the-while knowing the immense and intense physical pain he was enduring from the Diabetes.

I would thank him for being a good man.

On promises

Only two of my three children knew my father when he was alive, and both were very young when he passed. Their memories of him have likely faded.

Oh, how I wish they could have known their Grandpa.

I would want my dad to know my commitment to carry on his legacy. I would promise him that my children would know his story, that they would know the places he traveled, the people he met, the service he gave to his country and others, and the charity he showed in word and deed.

I’d make a promise to him that my sons would know what it means to love and serve those within your care.

You can rest assured I’d promise him I would be faithful, kind, and respectful to my own wife and children. That I would treat them with dignity and love as he did to his kids and his wife. I would be there for my wife during her most difficult times, that I’d support her in her endeavors and champion her to be her best self. I’d promise him to teach my children the value of work. I would teach my family to love each other, love God, and love their country.

I would promise him that I would be a continuous learner, constantly exploring how to better myself and then giving back to help others whenever and wherever possible. I’d be a mentor to others, including my children, as he was for me. I would strive to be knowledgeable, but humble enough to shut my mouth and listen. I’d be a peacemaker in my family and be an equal partner in my relationship with my wife.

I’d promise him that I would be vulnerable and not let shame govern my life.

I would promise him that no matter what, I would show up. I’d fight through pain, sickness, and suffering, but I would show up nonetheless. With grit, I’d be present for the challenges life was to throw at me. I’d promise him that only on rare occasions would I complain, but rather, I’d be thankful for my trials and try to find the lesson being taught by them.

While I could never match his storytelling prowess, I would try. I would carry on his sense of humor, his ability to captivate an audience, intrigue them, and make them laugh.

I’d promise him that I too would be a good man.

The struggle in writing out what you’d say to a loved one if it was the last time you’d hear their voice is simply that you’d never want it to end.

You’d never want to write the final word of gratitude or the final promise. You’d want your dad to live on forever so you could keep thanking him, keep holding his hand, keep learning from him, and never have to wonder what you’d say before his final breath.

One day, if my beliefs serve me well, I’ll be able to share these nuggets of gratitude and heartfelt promises with him. I’ll be able to see how I did in capturing the essence of the man he was and exemplifying that with my children. I’ll be able to share with him the wisdom I’ve gained and the family I’ve raised.

I’ll be able to show him the man I’ve become because of the man he was.