Last time I wrote about my father-in-law so I think it’s only fair I give my dad a little time over the next several weeks.

Time really does fly.  Next month it will be ten years since my dad got the ultimate promotion to heaven and I find myself sounding more and more like him every day.  Phrases he used, looks he gave, they are all a part of me and my siblings, whether we want to admit it or not.  He lived the last nine years of his life with the specter of cancer leering down on him, but he lived those years with a positive, hopeful attitude and never let it keep him from doing what he loved, or fulfilling the responsibilities of husband, father, grandfather, and Christian.

He found out that he had cancer accidently and very early in its progression.  He had a cut on his finger that wasn’t healing very well and a very smart healthcare provider recognized it for what it was, Multiple Myeloma.  At the time there was no cure, but the disease attacks very slowly and they gave him 5 years.  I clearly remember the day he came over to my house and announced “Today’s the day” and when I asked what he meant, he told me that today was five years and he was supposed to be dead.  He lived every day from then on as a “bonus” day.  Not that he changed after that, because he always knew that every day was a gift, it’s just that he felt like he had beat the odds.  And he did.  Every treatment, whether mainstream or experimental, worked on him.  From chemo, to interferon, to thalidomide, everything they tried slowed the disease.  But nothing stopped it.  So, the day before he was scheduled to fly to Boston for yet another experimental treatment, his oncologist told him “Go home, you have two weeks”.  So he spent his final two weeks (sadly this doctor was right) saying goodbye to a seemingly endless line of friends and family.

He mostly sat in an old blue La-Z-Boy recliner Peg and I had given him years before and as the grandkids came and sat beside him or played at his feet he got to see a little preview of heaven.  At the time, his youngest grandchild was my sisters little boy Eli.  I hesitate to say little because he’s currently the tallest 11 year old I’ve ever seen but, at the time, he was a precocious 19 month old who seemed to take in the world like a walking sponge.  Sadly my dad missed out on the subsequent 4 grandchildren and 4½ great grandchildren (my daughter Erin is currently processing the ½!).

He passed late on a Sunday evening.  Coincidently, we found out after talking later, the night that we all stopped praying for a miracle and started praying for a peaceful passage.  We sat around the dining room table that night for hours. Laughing, remembering, talking, crying, but mostly eating everything in my mom’s house and, eventually, everything in my house.  I don’t really remember my last words with him.  He passed in and out of consciousness those last days and conversations turned very one sided, but having two weeks to say goodbye gave me a different kind of peace than when Peg’s dad died.

My sister Kelly had gone home several hours before dad passed so she wasn’t there that night, but she made the drive in the next day and, of course, Eli was with her.  He bounded into the house and immediately ran to the blue recliner.  Seeing it empty, he didn’t ask the obvious question, but he spun around and pointed up to the corner of the room, where the ceiling meets two walls, and in his little toddler voice asked, “Where angel go?”.  Everyone stopped and Kelly, not quite sure if she really heard what he said, looked down and asked, “What did you say Eli?”.  With his little finger still pointing to the same spot he said it again, “Where angel go?”.  I think Kelly said something like, “Back to heaven”, and he was satisfied with the answer and immediately went about doing whatever it is toddlers do to entertain themselves.  He never asked about it again nor does he remember anything about that day.

May we all live our lives with as much dignity and joy as my father and pass from this world as angels watch and wonder.