Day +94: My Father’s Eyes

I wasn’t there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say

Those lyrics are taken from the song “The Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics, a song that resonated soundly with me when it was released three years after my own father passed away from lung cancer in 1986.

Twenty-six years ago today, to be exact.  As I mentioned in my Facebook post/tribute this morning, every year I grieve for my dad.  Sometimes it is just a quiet remembrance.  There have been years – more than I’d like to admit – that I have grieved for months surrounding October 20th.  But this year, my grieving takes on a much different significance, now that I have experienced cancer personally.

My dad was the strong, silent type.  Incredibly masculine, and never complained.  Stubborn as the day is long.  Not afraid of a hard day’s work, and yet had a gentle heart in so many ways.  He was not perfect, but I choose to remember the good.  And there was so much good.

I was . . . shall we say . . . an “active” child.  With a very vivid imagination, I was always into something.  In fact, my mom’s nickname for me growing up was “Imp.”  That should tell you something right there.  I would get this look in my eyes, and you would know that I had some idea in my head.  I’ve been told by those closest to me that I still get that look . . . 😉

One summer, my dad and stepmom took me on a day trip to New Hope, PA.  In fact, I remember going more than once.  But on this particular trip, we stopped at a store that had this penny candy machine with a big claw arm.  You would put in a penny, and the claw would start up, and you would guide it to where you wanted it to pick, and push a button.  The claw would then go down and grab whatever was in its path and drop it down the chute to the eager recipient.  I was entranced.  I went back home and determined that I was going to make one of my own.  And dad took it all in stride, never once discouraging me.  In fact, he found a cardboard box for me to cut out and work with to create my own.  I had to be about 7 or 8 at the time.

And then there was the swimming pool.  Growing up, I always wanted a pool in the backyard (still do!).  I loved to swim, and didn’t have nearly enough time in the water as I would have liked.  So one day, I decided I was going to install my own in his backyard.  I asked Daddy if I could build one.  And he said yes (really??).  So I went to the shed, got a shovel, and started digging a hole in the yard.  I gave up after about an hour, tiring of the digging.  I don’t think the hole was more than two feet wide and maybe 3 inches deep.  I think he knew when I asked that it wouldn’t take me long to realize that it was an impossible task for an 8 or 9 year old and the damage wouldn’t be that bad.

I could go on and on.  The lemonade stands, the “art” stores on the front steps, playing with his childhood archery set, his all-steel erector set, lincoln logs, and his marbles.  He had the most awesome set of marbles.  I would sit there for hours and entertain myself on the floor of the den, while he napped after Sunday dinner.  He had marbles of every imaginable color and pattern.  And then there were the “steelies” – round balls of steel.  Some the same size as the other marbles, some slightly bigger.  When I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of them in my hand.

But I think my most favorite memories of my dad were of the times that I would climb up with him as he napped, curl up right behind him in the small of his back, snuggle up close and fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing.  I never felt so safe, so protected, so secure.

When he was diagnosed with lung cancer in January of 1986, I was 13 years old.  I was struggling unsuccessfully to fit in at school, trying to figure out just who I was.  I had lost my grandmother (dad’s mother) two years before, and my step-grandmother within a year after that.  I was no stranger to death at my young age.  But even with that experience, and a cancer diagnosis, I never dreamed that he would not survive.  To me, my dad was invincible.  I expected him to get better and we would go on.

Because my dad was so stubborn, he did not go to see a doctor when he first started feeling sick.  By the time he went for the rib pain he was experiencing, the cancer had metasticized.  The subsequent rounds of chemotherapy and radiation took their toll on his body.  I remember that the only thing he could eat during chemotherapy and after were frozen popsicles and italian ice.  I find it ironic that I was doing the same thing fighting my own battle 27 years later.

I thought about my dad a lot during my treatment.  I wondered how he would feel about his daughter having leukemia if he were still alive.    And I longed to curl up again in the small of his back, as I did when I was a little girl in pigtails and feel that feeling of security and protection and strength.

On Monday, October 20th, 1986, at 12:38 am, my dad slipped from this life into the next, quietly in the arms of my older brother.  I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away, and I didn’t get to tell him all the things I had to say.  But:

I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I’m sure I heard his echo
In my baby’s new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

 

In Memory of Charles Stewart Duffy, Jr.
March 10, 1925 – October 20, 1986

The Living Years, Mike & The Mechanics