My father passed away last Tuesday. He was two months shy of his 90th birthday. We knew it was coming for a few days. Irene and me were visiting, just been there an hour when it happened. Dad was in some sort of twilight place. He wasn’t really with us, but he hadn’t totally left either. Irene and me were laughing about something, and Dad just stopped breathing. The whole thing was so peaceful, not even a sigh. The last thing he heard was us laughing. We’re sad, of course, but relieved and grateful, too.
I thought I’d take this week’s blog to remember Dad at his best by sharing a couple quick stories. I didn’t record it. That would have been too much for me. Thanks for all the wonderful memories, Dad!
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My Dad, what a character! He tried that computer dating thing. This was a few years after my mom passed. He joined this Catholic dating site. A friend who’s good with computers helped him put up his profile, but he didn’t include a picture. When my niece Caitlin caught wind of it, she got Dad’s password and everything and added a nice photo of him taken at Easter dinner that year. I’ll be darned. He got so many responses, it crashed his computer! Well, he’s a good looking guy: nice head of hair and he still drives at night!
I remember asking, “How’s the computer dating going, Dad?”
“I’ve been out on a few.”
“You have? Where’d you go?”
“McDonalds. We met for breakfast.”
“Ho, ho! Last of the big spenders!”
“Hey, I was going anyway. I figured, why not have some company?”
“How’d it go?”
“Alright, I guess, but it’s hard to keep ‘em straight.”
“The women?”
“Yeah.”
“Geez, how many dates you been on?”
“Three, maybe. See, they’re all Catholic, ‘bout my age or a little younger, so they were all named Mary. It’s confusing.”
“I can see that it.”
“I was getting so many emails, I quit the computer dating. Too much like work.”
“Were any of the gals cute?”
“Nope. Listen, Ida, women my age fall into two categories: “decent looking” or “better be a good cook.” All three belonged in that second group.
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After Dad moved into Mahoosuc Green, he joined the men’s group. This was when he was in Independent Living. When I asked what they do, Dad says they sit around and talk about how to make the place better, which sounds about right for a men’s group.
“There are some guys there,” he says, “that love being miserable. Nothing’s ever right. My feeling is, this is a nice place and I’m lucky to have the life I have. Besides, when I moved in here, I made up my mind I was just going to go with the flow. Makes life easier.”
“What did you do this week, dad?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, beano. Went to a movie in the movie room.”
“What’d you see?”
“Can’t remember, but the popcorn was good. Oh, and I went to a program about end of life.”
“You did? What was it like?
“They asked us questions, and folks shared stuff. It was interesting.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Like, ‘If you had twenty-four hours to live, what would you do?’”
I immediately started thinking about what I’d eat, which tells you something about me. Later, when I asked Charlie, he said he’d take a walk in the woods.
“What’d you say, dad?”
“I said I’d make my bed because that’s the only thing I have left undone.”
You know, that sounds like a joke, but if stop and really think about it, wow! It’s deep.
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From Susan: This week’s blog is dedicated to my Dad, Patrick Poulin. My real life weaves in and out of Ida’s world, and so it’s no surprise that Dad died last Tuesday with my sister Jane and I beside him, laughing. All the stories above came directly from my Dad. Ida and I will miss him. The good news is that Betty (my Mother) and Pat are Ida’s friends. So, through Ida I get to hang out with my parents in their prime. How lucky am I?
Here’s a link to my Dad’s obituary.