After three hospitals and two stays in a nursing home here in Terre Haute over the course of about three months, it took a 12-hour non-stop cross-country ambulance ride to Virginia to give my dad another chance at life after a stalled recovery from brain surgery. He arrived tired but happy at the Fairfax Nursing Center at about 9 p.m. His face brightened when he saw me as they rolled him in. The next day, he started three types of rehabilitation therapy and steadily improved in each. My mom and I visited him every day, and although he would have plenty of times when his mind was not clear, we had many conversations about a wide range of things related to the life together that we were looking forward to, the house that he would be moving into, the status of the house in Terre Haute, and an assortment of other matters.
But amid all this good care, Death was catching up with us. My dad caught pneumonia and was hospitalized. The infectious disease specialist who contacted me to tell me they were going to give my dad a powerful new antibiotic told me that people in their ninth decade could appear healthy one day and die the next. And so that is what happened. My dad’s vital signs dropped suddenly early last Saturday. The hospital immediately called me to tell me that had happened but that his vital signs were back stable again. The next call I got about an hour later was that he was dead.
Although Death took my dad, I have no doubt that in his mind he was going to join his mother, his dad, and his four brothers. He had seen them. He had called to them. My dad told the nursing home staff in Terre Haute that his brother Firman had died even though no one had told my dad that Uncle Firman had died the previous week. And whether you or I believe in the Afterlife, we can all agree that my dad no long has to deal with feeding tubes, needles, IVs, catheters, walkers, and medications.
Those of us whom my dad left behind remember him as a vigorous, strong, yet gentle and kind man whose life was full and varied up until his last few weeks. He loved cars, and asked me repeatedly about the welfare of his ancient Ford station wagon when he got to Virginia. One time when I left his bedside, he told me to drive carefully. I replied, “By the way, I’m driving your Lincoln.” Without missing a beat, he grinned and exclaimed, “Well you better drive extra carefully then!”
He loved working with his hands. I remember many times as a child watching my grandfather working in his garden in Fontanet along with his youngest son, my dad, and then when my grandfather could no longer work the land, he and I would both watch my dad plow, hoe, and harvest. Not in any way would I disparage college professors, but I’m betting there are very few who have taught themselves plumbing, electrical wiring, and carpentry, and practiced those trades until they were 88 years old.
My dad loved the teaching profession. His success at teaching and mentoring his students and more junior colleagues makes a mockery of those institutions that have the “publish or perish” philosophy. Without a doubt his interest in international politics was contagious—he was the cause of my own interest in that field. His experience in World War II and his patriotism were all part of the reason international relations fascinated him. His knowledge of history was deep and broad. There were times when we talked that I felt like I was sitting in one of his classes. How I’d love to have that feeling again!
But most of all, my dad loved his family. Not a week went by while I was growing up that he didn’t go see his mom and dad at least once and usually more often than that. He brought his parents home into the 20th century, most notably from my perspective by helping to install indoor plumbing so there was no longer a need for those long icy winter walks to the out house. He genuinely enjoyed getting together with his brothers and sister and discussing with them the issues of the day, usually over a beer or two, often with a football game on the TV in the background, and sometimes rather heatedly.
When my grandmother and grandfather grew elderly, he looked out after them, chauffeuring them to doctors” appointments and making sure that they got the best care possible. Without my dad and my aunt, there’s no question that my grandmother could not have lived alone out in the country until literally the week before she died at age 98. He was my inspiration in so many ways and the way he cared for his parents represented the way I wanted to care for mine.
My mother and I knew before my dad died and we know it even more so now that he would have done anything to make us happy. I can remember many times when my mom and dad would visit Tom, Dan, Angela, and me at our home in Annapolis, Maryland, I’d begin to do some household maintenance project and the next thing you’d know, my dad was doing it and I was standing there watching.
Just a couple of weeks ago as my mom and I sat at my dad’s bedside in the nursing home in Virginia, she asked him if we was happy to be in Virginia and if he wanted to stay. He immediately and vigorously said yes, that they were starting a new life there. But then he looked at my mom with concern and said, “But if you don’t like it, we’ll go back to Terre Haute.”
And that’s what it was supposed to be for him—a new life. And in a way it was, because he was getting the encouragement and support in Virginia that he needed to recover and come home to a house he had never seen but that he had trusted me to buy for him. I am so thankful for that time I had with him then, his hand seeking out mine and holding it with his always-strong, warm grip. I could calm him when the confusion overtook his thoughts and encourage him to keep up the good work in his therapy. I could see how much he and my mother cared for each other even after 65 years of marriage. These were precious moments for me, and only child that I am, I want more. But if the loss of my dad to the hand of Death means that he has rejoined his mom and dad and his four brothers, then I am thankful for the peace that has been brought to him. His presence is still with all who knew him. He made the world a better place in his own way and on his own terms.
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