Questions I wish I'd asked

It's been just over six months since Dad was transferred to Paradise. As I've moved from obsession to detachment regarding him, I am continually struck by how much I didn't know about this man, my father. He was raised in an era of masculine supremacy that didn't allow for free and permissive intimacy with one's children. I knew Dad through the person he revealed to me. I also knew him as I observed him with others. And yet, in the grand scheme of his 76 year existence, there is so much I didn't know about this man I worshipped. It is one of life's great ironies, that the Dad from whose genes I derive experienced so much life without my knowledge. I don't mention this as a criticism, but an observation in light of his departure. As I've contemplated his time here on earth, there is so much I wish I'd inquired about. Here are some examples:

How many children did you want when you were first married?

What was childhood like being raised with all those sisters? How did that effect your relationship with women?

Who were you closer to, your Mom or your Dad? Why?

What would you say was your greatest challenge as a young man? As a young husband? As a young father?

Where were you when Kennedy was shot?

Did new Cadillacs seem outrageously expensive to you when you'd drive by the dealer and dream?

How did you afford summer homes in northern Wisconsin for all those years?

When and where were you the happiest? Tell me about it.

Any regrets?

Had you been feeling OK those last weeks of life? Were you ready to go?

What was your greatest fear in life?

Describe a favorite childhood memory.

I am comforted, Dad, knowing that one day, I'll be able to sit with you, look into your brilliant blue eyes, and ask you these questions. I long for that day.

When it all started

I remember the moment with clarity, my commencement to grief. Dad, his wife, and I escaped to Canada for a fishing trip for a few days. It was a rare opportunity for me to step away from my hectic life of Provider/Father and relax with Dad in an environment we both adored. Though it was three years ago, I can recall the joy of being with him - just with him again - as a renewal of sorts. For the first time in years, I had his undivided attention. It was as if I was his son all over again, because my kids weren't there thirsting for his attention, etc. It felt wonderful. As the days raced by, I suspected that he too was sensing the preciousness of this time. And just maybe, we both realized that this might be the last time we'd have this kind of opportunity.

On the drive home, I recall a two hour stretch as we headed towards the Canadian border. Cyndi was asleep, and Dad and I got to talking. Our favorite music from times gone by played softly in the background, and as the rocky coastline of pines flew by the window, we reminisced together. We'd already had the conversations about work, and raising of kids, and the struggles of "managing it all." No, this was our chance to recall the good times of years long since past. And that's what we did, with both of us recalling how rich a time we had together as father and son: the routines we shared, the vacation adventures we went on, the love of dogs and cars and tennis. It was so bittersweet that emotions caught us both at various times during the sharing. We'd look at each other, both realizing that it would never be like that again. Having commune with this part of Dad's heart - a part I knew existed, but so rarely emerged - felt like heaven on earth.

As we pulled into the gas station at the border, my heart began to feel a bit heavy. Our time was ending - exchange was over for now. I started to wonder if I'd ever experience him like this again, where sharing the vulnerable "stuff" was OK, even desired. It dawned on me that part of him was gone, the Daddy part that nurtured me, tucked me in at night, held my hand when I trembled, and would always be there. I was a Dad now, too, and this was life's natural evolution, but it seemed to strike me profoundly at that moment. Perhaps it was provoked by the bittersweet memories (it felt so good to hear him talk like this!) we discussed for the previous few hours. Whatever it was, I was troubled when we returned to the car. Now I understand: it was at that moment - three years before his death - that I began to grieve.

We got back on the road. Sitting in the back seat now, with Dad at the wheel of my car, I glanced up to see Dad's eyes in the rear view mirror. He was looking at me, noting my sadness. As he winked, I realized that he understood my pain, and he shared in it with me. And though we never talked about it (or talked like that) again, I knew at that moment that he'd be holding me in his arms forever.