Here’s the post I’ve been dreading to write, but needing to
write.
I recently lost a good friend who happened to be my father.
For those who aren’t aware, my Dad died 3 weeks ago. It was dignified and
peaceful, as much as possible in a stressful situation. After a series of hospital
visits and strokes, Sid understood there were no repairs available – no more engineering
workarounds. When he could no longer eat junk food (or anything other than
pureed mush) we both knew that his time was up. He was briefly on palliative
status, then hospice care; 4 days later he efficiently exited with me by his
side. It was a privilege to witness his last breath. Dad always wanted to go to
happy hour every Thursday, leaving his apartment at 3:30 so he could snag a
good seat. He died at 3:30 on Thursday July 26, looking for a good seat
wherever he was traveling next.
I’ve been reflecting on the legacy my father left me. What I
treasure most are the stories – his way of framing history, his ability to find
humor in situations that were traumatic, his keen intellect and grasp of
detail.
Like many baby boomers, I didn’t really know my parents as
people. I went to college far away, created my own path, monitored them from
afar. When my mother died in 2013, it was a chaotic blur, handled badly by a
fragmented healthcare system - an emotional roller coaster for my father that
almost killed him. At that point I had a choice to make. I took Dad outside to
look at the full moon and said “you’re not done. This will be a new adventure
for both of us, we’ll figure it out.” I will never forget how he looked at me with
pure trust. I changed my priorities, relationships, occupation and lifestyle,
all for the better. My father frequently thanked me for my help, yet I was
given the real gift and I thank him.
Sid was proud that he was able to start a new chapter. A few
months ago I wrote down what I now realize might have been the last update in
his diary. He told me “I thought when your mother died my life was over. But I
was able to start over. Now I’m falling apart and I’m not sure how to manage
this aging body. I know what your mother would have said. She would have told
me to stop feeling sorry for myself, make the best of it, carry on. And so I
did.”
Lots of people have told me what a good daughter I am, which
is true. It was also hard work which caused much anxiety. I was constantly
worried about his safety. I called my father every day at 4 pm for the past 5 years,
no matter where I was located. Sometimes he left me funny phone messages,
usually ending with “I had a good day.” I now listen to his voice mails at 4 pm
when I’m lonely.
I’ve attached the obituary I wrote to honor Sidney Vogel, a
complex yet simple man. I organized a celebration of his life at his retirement
home, exactly one week after he died, leading into the best happy hour ever
with everyone devouring giant deli pickles. Going forward, there will be a Sid
Vogel Pickle Day every Sept 2, his birthday. He wanted to make it to age 96, however
he was also concerned about what event I was going to plan – “no skydiving,” he
admonished me.
Mixed emotions are at play. I miss watching my father devour
his non-kosher shrimp and bacon. I’m humbled by the sacrifices he made and the
challenges he overcame. I’m relieved that he was mentally sharp until the end
of his life. I’m astonished that he lasted decades beyond his expected
expiration date. I’m grateful that friends were with me to make sure I wasn’t
alone. I accept that there will be lost items that reappear in strange places
and spiritual mysteries. It’s wonderful that his geriatrician attempted to list
“picklepenia” as a secondary cause on the death certificate (Latin for lack of
pickles). After Sid’s death this doctor spent an hour talking with me (for no
revenue) about seniors and caregiving, acknowledging my role and sharing his
thoughts.
I’m taking time for self-care and I won’t be blogging for a
while. However the stories are not over; we are all aging quirkier than ever. For
now, I’ll end this post with Sid’s famous dinnertime blessing declared to his
tablemates: “good night, good health and good fortune to you all.”
