I Miss You Daddy...Thoughts of Saturday Mornings, Warm Coffee and Pipe Tobacco

Before dementia began eroding my parents' lives, and even after it began, every single Saturday Morning I would run downstairs, my Mom would be in the kitchen trying to figure out how to put cereal in the bowl but not wanting any help, and I would pour two large mugs of coffee with just a tad of cream, place it on a pewter serving tray that a coal mining executive had given my dad decades earlier, and slip into my parents bedroom. It was usually about 10:30 or 11:00 am, and my dad would be sound asleep. I'd put the tray down, run over to his desk and fill his favorite pipe with the proper amount of tobacco (I learned this from an early age), grab his lighter and then gently scoot in beside him and say, "hey, are you going to sleep all day?". After a few seconds he'd wake up, slowly open his eyes and I'd be holding his mug of coffee. A smile would light up his face. "Well, look at this - room service!! I love you, honey!". We'd settle in and I'd prop him up in bed with several pillows, by now either Sailor or Cleo would be on the bed along with us, and I'd hand my dad his pipe which he would promptly light and another smile would break out as he took possession of his coffee. "Mmmmmmm...now this is good.".

This became our Saturday and Sunday Morning ritual. After dad was awake enough to draw on his pipe and sip his coffee, he'd begin regaling me with tales...stories I'd heard countless times but with his Jimmy Stewart-esque delivery, I never ever got tired of hearing them. He'd tell me about the time his family moved from Itmann to Keyrock, and how his brothers, Otis and Dick were in charge of walking with their cow, "Old Pet", through the mountains to their new residence and how, when the rest of the family had settled into their new house for the night, his Mom and Dad were getting visibly concerned because Dick and Otis hadn't arrived yet. FINALLY, they arrived just as darkness was falling and the family was reunited. Or maybe he'd tell me about the times he had to "sit up all night with dead", a practice that was common back in the 1930's - 1950's in southern WV. "What in the world would you do, Daddy?", I'd ask every single time. "Well, we ate a LOT of food and situated our chairs around the coffin that was usually in the living room or dining room. We'd tell stories and try not to nod off!". I'd ask him, "why did people do that? what were they expecting to happen?". He'd laugh and say, "I don't know honey, it was just something we did...out of respect.". But he added, "oh sometimes we'd get to telling stories and laugh and have a good time!". I would smile because I knew if my Dad was in the middle of it, it had to be an entertaining evening.

Sometimes he'd tell me stories about his time in the US Navy...lots of funny stories and a few that would break my heart no matter how many times I heard them. Then, as I often did, we'd bring it back to the 1960's and I'd pull out a diary from, say, 1966 and the first time we vacationed at Wrightsville Beach and the little cottage we rented facing the Sound. He'd always vividly describe my eyes when I first saw the ocean - how mesmerized I was - "You LOVED it! Right away! You never wanted to leave!" and then, we'd marvel at how we lived just a few short miles from that spot and how much history had passed between us.

I now look back at those Saturday Mornings and I swear I can almost smell his pipe and see the steam coming up from those special cups of coffee. He'd throw his arm around me and always, always we finished up with a hug and he'd look me straight in the eye and say, "thank you for taking such good care of your old Mom and Dad". I drop tears when I remember those golden moments, but I smile as well.

When you're in the middle of such moments, on some level you know they won't last forever, but you can't and must not dwell too much on that because it will take away from the present, from the magic of it all. I never really allowed myself to consider that this wouldn't go on forever, even though intellectually I knew that it could not.

On this day before Father's Day, I look around my bedroom and I have a large bookcase next to the secretary that my parents bought around the same time I arrived on the scene. In the bookcase is every single volume of my Dad's diaries; forty-seven years of our shared lives are in those handwritten books. I haven't read all of them - but I look over at them and I feel my Daddy right here with me. Every word he wrote was deliberate and a tangible legacy of the lives we were blessed to share together.

My Dad was simply the quintessential perfect father - the guy you would surreptitiously connive with to get Mom to agree to something she wouldn't normally acquiesce. The man you could confidently share your dreams and also your deepest fears with in complete safety and without any fear of being made to feel silly or ridiculous. He was the comforting hug as I went through a divorce, the stalwart cheerleader when I acknowledged that it was time for me to get sober, the champion who always figured out a solution to a situation that perplexed me and the guy who made me believe I was so much more courageous, stronger and smarter than I would often feel. He became that voice that challenged me to step up to the plate, no matter what it was, and congratulate me when I did - whether it was finally leaping off a diving board when I was ten years old, or the night before major surgery when I was 34 years old or right before an interview for a job I really wanted. In my eyes, he was as close to the "perfect father" I could ever imagine - a fount of love, encouragement, understanding, humor and delicious mischief!!

Daddy, this is my second Father's Day without you and even though I miss you as much as I did in the hours after you left this earth, I'm so GRATEFUL for the stock of memories you left me with. I feel your direction, hear your voice and honestly am aware of your presence every single day and what an amazing gift that is!! I miss our Saturday Morning coffee klatches but my gosh, weren't we incredibly blessed to have so many of them?? I know that's what YOU'D say because you always spun grief into gratitude - and I'm learning to do the very same thing. Thank you for being the most incredible father anyone could ever hope to have and for loving and providing for our family through everything. I personally hope you're sipping a cup of hot coffee, drawing on your pipe packed "just right" with your favorite tobacco and holding my Mom's hand because if you are doing those things, then I know you are happy and content.

I love you, I love you, I love you...always and forever.

Dear Becky - Happy 65th Birthday - Wish You Were Here

Dear Becky,

Happy birthday! I can't believe you'd be sixty-five years old today. You've been gone for forty-two years and wow have you missed a lot of stuff. I couldn't begin to bring you up-to-date, but brace yourself -  you're not only an aunt to my son and daughter, you're a great aunt to three incredible little girls who were born last year. Can you imagine your little sister is now a Nana? How crazy is that?

You would absolutely adore Katie and Justin - I gave Katie your middle name and it suits her. She's happily married to a very tall and kind man named John. They are parents to two absolutely adorable twin daughters who were born on Halloween last year. Katie and John named one of their daughters after our Mom which would please her to no end if she were able to remember it.

Justin married a lovely young lady named Stephanie. Justin has a heart that is roughly the size of Texas, which happens to be where he was born back in 1986. He and Stephanie are very proud parents to a little girl named Evelyn, who is lovely and sometimes she reminds me of your baby pictures. She was born on September 8th last year, just seven weeks before her NYC cousins. You could say 2014 was a very fertile year for our family. 

Our Dad and Mom are now 90 and 91 years old. Can you freaking believe that? They've had an amazing life and are still just as madly in love as they must have been when you were born in 1950. They still do everything together, including snagging dual admissions to Lower Cape Fear Hospice. I've been their full-time caregiver for the past three years and I gotta tell you, it's getting kind of tough right now. Our Mom refers to me as "that woman" a lot of the time and she gives me a run for my money, just as you probably remember me giving her a few gray hairs. Daddy still smokes a pipe, still loves ice cream and plots to escape the house when I leave to run to the store. Much of the time they're still graciously affable but suffice it to say, we're losing serious ground down here.

God I miss you. I'll be honest, given that you died when I was thirteen, there's so much I don't remember about you but there's a few things that I do and I cling to those. You were always the "girly girl" who loved dresses, never had a hair out of place and wore beautiful clothes. Me? I may be fifty-five but I'm still a tomboy, love to work outside and I'm usually disheveled, in sneakers or barefoot and I'm stalked twenty-four hours a day by a small Cairn-Terrier named Sailor and a huge Newfoundland mix named Cleo. I couldn't survive any of this without them. If you arranged for me to meet them at New Hanover Sheriff's Animal Services Unit, I must thank you. They're both "rescues" but they rescue me on a daily basis.

Oh, I cook now. Go figure. I never wanted to be a nurse, but it turns out I've become one. Remember how Mom used to take care of our Granny? Yeah, well, I'm doing that times two. It's a little crazy. Everything is a little crazy down here.

Mom tells me there's a "little girl" hiding in our house and sometimes I wonder if she's thinking of you? Your photos hang in our parents room and they look at them often. I heard my Mom telling one of her hospice nurses about you the other day - she said you were their only daughter and you died a really long time ago. I see Dad looking at old family photos on his computer and quite often he's looking at photos from the 1950's and you're in most of them. They still miss you terribly - we all do.

I'm not at all sure what it's like where you are, but it's a circus down here. Mom still has your hope chest and it's sitting in the foyer of my home and folded neatly inside are some of your things; your graduation robe and the bridesmaid dress you wore in your best friend Nancy Linkous' wedding. Mom still has some of your jewelry and I even managed to keep a couple of trinkets you gave me before you went away.  Years ago Mom made a shadowbox containing your class ring, your charm bracelet, your wedding announcement and a small pennant pin from Welch High School. Oh, and I still have your French Provincial end tables in my living room. I've refinished them and they've held up quite well. 

I gotta tell you, I look at at the sky several times a week, usually after an exasperating encounter with Mom or Dad, and I usually say something glib like, "Wow, you're missing all the fun sister!", or "Thanks a lot!", but really, I'm only teasing. If you're looking down you probably smile a lot. For the most part it's been a pretty good ride but the ride is getting bumpy and winding down and I'm scared a lot of the time. 

I think of you every single day but I become extra sentimental every year on your birthday and, of course, on May 25th. My whole life has been divided into two parts - pre May 25 1973 when everything in my world felt safe and happy and my biggest decisions involved whether to play kickball or go fishing and then post May 25 1973 when you died and nothing was ever the same. Even though I was only thirteen and I didn't understand much about death, having never been around it, it was pretty much the most jarring event of my life. Talk about turning our little world upside down! I know it wasn't your choice either but geesh...that was a really sucky time!

I hope things are well for you up there and obviously the concept of heaven implies that all is wonderful and happy and I genuinely hope it is. I can't tell you when to expect Mom and Dad, but I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you and I know you'll show them the ropes and just an FYI - Mom's just as bossy as she ever was, but she's definitely softened with age and when she's not railing to go back to West Virginia, she's incredibly sweet and has mellowed a great deal. Daddy - well - I just hope heaven has a smoking section where pipes are allowed because if they don't, I'm not sure he'll stay. Otherwise, he hasn't changed much at all. He's sweet, kind and for the love of God I hope when he transitions to your world that his hearing is restored because he flat out refuses to wear a hearing aid. Other than that, he's a sweetheart. 

Oh, one more thing - thank you for sending Sharon my way. If ever there was an embodiment of you, it's in my best friend and non-biological "sister" Sharon Pate Batts. My gosh, she has been a great pinch hitter for you - she is supportive, kind, loving, compassionate and not a bit shy about straightening me out when I need it, much as I imagine you would do if you were here. I can't imagine getting through the last fourteen years without her and I thank God she's part of my life. Sometimes I'm sure you're literally directing her advice and actions. You would absolutely love her. I know I do.

Hey, if I never told you and, given that I was fairly young when you flew up, me being a newly minted teenager and all, I probably wasn't all that great at expressing how much I loved you but please know, you left a huge impact on my life and even though I can't remember a lot of the details about you, I know I loved you lots. I still do. Sometimes I really do feel you with me and I love those moments. I really hope I see you again (sorry, but not any time soon - I have granddaughters to spoil!), but the first thing I want to do is give you a big huge hug and the second thing I want to do is ask you what in the world were you thinking to leave me in this mess?? 

Becky, I miss you so much it hurts sometimes. Don't worry though, I'm doing the best I can and now that I have hospice, I have some great help with our Mom and Dad. I won't let any of us down. Promise.  I can't say I'm having a wonderful time, but I sure wish you were here.

All my love to you,

Susan