Saying Goodbye

My father informed me over the phone that he was going into the hospital for a few days to, in his words, “get the leaks plugged.” That was his way of describing radiation treatment for the cancer that had spread from his prostate to his bladder over five years.

As always when he was ill, I offered to go to Massachusetts from my home in D.C. He had always turned me down, but this time he surprised me by saying, “That would be nice.” I flew up immediately.

It was clear when I got to the hospital that Daddy was dying. He greeted me, but soon he returned to the semiconscious state that would he would be in for his remaining days. The doctor said that it was time to take Daddy home and call the family together. By the next day, all six of us kids, along with most of our spouses and kids, were gathered in our childhood home.

Daddy would rally once or twice a day for a precious few minutes, full of smiles and delighted to have us all there. We played his cherished operas and the cast recording of “Oklahoma,” which he and my mother had seen on Broadway and dearly loved. A few of his close friends, neighbors, and family members dropped by, but when you are 85, it’s a small circle.

My mother was rather deep in the throes of Alzheimer’s by this time, her grip on reality fading with my father’s vitality. He was her rock, the one who completed the sentences she could not. I think that seeing him so incapacitated was intolerable for her. She couldn’t seem to stay in the living room, where we had Daddy’s hospital bed, even though he asked for her from time to time. We had the idea of spraying the cologne Daddy always bought for her, Fleur de Rocaille by Caron, on a handkerchief and tucking in his pillowcase. It did the trick; he smiled and sighed, and I like to think that he believed she was at his side.

Spoiler alert: my father did die, but not for three weeks. We passed that time by telling each other story after story from our childhood, all set in the house on Grove Terrace my father bought even before he married my mother. 

My sister predicted that some time, we would all be together and someone would say, “Remember the time when Daddy wouldn’t die?” We all laughed so hard our sides ached. It was the second-hardest I’ve ever laughed.

During those long weeks, we were each on our own private emotional roller coaster. My father’s impending demise, my mother’s deteriorating health, and being stuck together with little to do but wait took a toll on each of us. But I am proud to say that we were also deeply considerate of each other’s feelings.

That’s why I did not tell my sister that she had lost her mind when she asked me if Daddy had ever said anything to me about being buried in his robe. There are limits to being considerate, and I told her no in the nicest way possible

Daddy had a lovely midnight-blue smoking jacket that he referred to as his robe. It was very elegant, and he often wore it to the dinner table during the week so he wouldn’t soil his suit jacket. But I hadn’t even seen it in years. And I was damned if I would permit my brilliant, dignified, highly respected father to be buried in his robe.

However, this was only the start of a long procession of others taking me aside to ask me the same question. The last to ask was Daddy’s minister, who had come over to plan the funeral. 

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that your father would like to be buried in his robes?”

And that’s when I laughed the first-hardest I’ve ever laughed. He said robes. Not robe. That little s makes a big difference. He was suggesting that my father, who had been the justice of the local district court for more than 20 years, might want to be interred in his judicial robes, not his bathrobe.

And of course, he would. And of course, he was. Bonus: the copious pockets inside the robes were perfect for stuffing with mementos—toys from his younger grandkids, a favorite joke necktie that read “hello handsome” when he looked in the mirror, the hanky with my mother’s cologne, and more.

One morning, my oldest nephew whispered into his grandfather’s ear. “Goodbye, Grandpa,” he said. “I love you, but I have to get back to college.” He picked up his suitcase and walked out of the house.

That’s when Daddy died. The party was over. The guests were going home. He was a terrific host--and an even better father.