Lessons in Gratitude Day 86

One year ago today, on September 23, my father died.

I had flown to Indiana to see him a few days before. My brother Alan had told me, “If you want to see him one more time, you’d better come.” Upon the advice of my partner I bought a one way ticket to South Bend, as I wasn’t sure about when my return flight might be. I packed funeral clothes. I arranged for someone to teach my class. I went home to see Dad. I spent two long days at the hospital, sometimes by myself, often with one or another of my siblings or my Dad’s wife. He couldn’t talk much and he wandered in and out of lucidity, but he knew who I was and on more than one occasion looked right at me, seeing me, and puffed out, “I love you.” Those moments were precious to me. My dad had not been a particularly expressive of his feelings as I was growing up; he’d actually gotten much better as he got older, particular after my mother died. So those last few I love yous were golden.

I had not witnessed my Dad’s decline–my brothers in Indiana, their wives and children watched it unfold. My sisters in the East and me in the West did not experience the day-to-day challenges and the emotional toll they took on those who were close by. I’m not sure why I chose to wait so long to go see Dad; I think I just wasn’t ready to go any earlier than I did. On the third day I was in town, I got up, dressed and headed toward the hospital. I texted my sister Michaele asking if she wanted me to bring her a coffee from Starbucks. She called a few minutes later and said, “Come right now.” There was an undeniable urgency in her voice that caused me to make the 20 minute drive as best I could without speeding. When I arrived, he was already gone. It was a very surreal moment being in the room with my oldest sister, one of my brothers, my Dad’s wife and stepson, and he was there, unmoving, no longer gasping for breath.

We stayed there for a while, looking at him, looking at each other, crying, consoling one another, talking in hushed tones. Even now I remember the scene in the room and how he looked. Eventually everyone left except for me and Michaele. We stood together looking at him and I watched her experience the first moments of grief that I’d seen from her in many years. Then, she and I parted. We were each staying the other of our two brothers’ homes. I drove back toward Alan’s house, wondering how I was going to tell my children and thinking it was still too early in California to call them. I pulled off into a parking lot to call Jared first. I took some deep breaths and thought I was alright to talk, but as soon as I said the words, “Grandpa died this morning,” I lost it. I didn’t sob, but I choked up as I talked with him. He sounded subdued, but relatively calm. Before I called Michal, I called her roommate; but he wasn’t awake. So I plunged ahead and called her and got voicemail. She called me back a few moments later and I told her the news. She, like Jared, was quietly sad. The conversation with each of them was short. I told them I loved them and would see them when I flew them out for the funeral.

I won’t recount in this blog the many stories, tensions, laughter, poignant moments that punctuated those days following my father’s death. The gathering of six children, fourteen grandchildren, one great grandchild, along with his wife and two step children, and a community of extended family and friends, local political and educational leaders, parishioners, patients, other medical professionals coming together to pay respects to a man who had lived an incredible life was quite a remarkable experience.

So many memories are with me of those days last year. Today I am grateful for them, and for the expressions of love and longing from my siblings and their children and from my children as we each mark this day. Such gratitude for the legacy from both of my parents, the indelible mark that they each placed on their children’s lives that still finds expression in how we’ve walked our various paths and our children follow along. I had intended to write a book about my father (in fact I had intended to write a book about my grandfather), but have precious few details about who he was that I am unsure where to go from here. Perhaps I will write it, perhaps I let too much time go by and my principle sources of information are now mostly gone. In any event, that is not for me to think about tonight. Tonight I am simply grateful for who my Dad was, to feel the pangs of loss and know it’s alright. Hard to believe a year has passed and so much has happened in my life since he passed on. I wonder if he ever peeks in on us. If so, I hope he is proud of what he sees. Goodbye again, Papa. Still missing you.

Roland Wesley Chamblee, Sr.