30 years

Today marks 30 years since my father died. He was 69 years old at the time of his death, having suffered a final fatal heart attack right at home, in his own bed, exactly where he said he wanted to die.

I, the youngest of his three sons, was living in Denver with my bride and, at the time, two children - both young. I had been out, making sales calls, and when I returned to my office in downtown Denver, my secretary had an odd look on her face. As I peered into my office, I saw my bride, wrapping up a telephone call. This was strange for 2 O'clock in the afternoon, so I approached her, and she shut the door behind me. Then, after ensuring I sat down first, she sprung the bad news on me.

Knowing I would be a mess, she had already arranged my flight to California for later that day. She would join me the next day - after she had arranged for someone to watch the kids. I don't remember much about the next few hours, except thinking to myself I was thankful I had done what my dad had asked for the last few months.

He had almost begged me to come visit, bringing my wife and children. We had a new child, a baby boy, only six months old, plus his one and only granddaughter, who was four. My father, who had heart problems for years, was simply too sick to travel. I had resisted visiting because, frankly, we were broke, and I had just begun a new job.

Fortunately, I threw logic and reason to the wind, and, instead relied on gut. Something inside told me to make the trip, and bring everyone, even though we couldn't afford it. So, some 12 days before his death, we visited. He was incredibly thankful, as was my mom. They both absolutely relished their time with my daughter and 6 month old baby boy, holding and playing with them every opportunity they could during the three day visit we had with them.

When the kids took naps, I spent time with my parents, and my dad looked into my eyes and told me that he probably wouldn't make it until Christmas. My response was typical of an offspring that doesn't want to face the truth, "Dad, you're being morbid, you're gonna be around a long time." He looked at me with his sad, rheumy eyes, gave that crooked smile he had always had, and said, "I don't know, but I'm sure glad you came."

AS the final day of our visit arrived, the kids gave their grandma and grandpa their hugs and kisses, and both my parents eyes welled up with tears. My bride, of course, also gave kisses and hugs, and then strapped the kids in the car. As she was doing this, I gave my mom a long hug and kiss, and turned to my dad. He was visibly crying by now. That, of course, made my eyes begin to leak too. When I kissed, and hugged him, he held me for the longest time, telling me he loved me. I repeated the same words to him. They would be the last words I would say to my father. I feel astoundingly blessed that they were.

As many children experience in their lifetimes, relationships with their parents are filled with ups and downs. There are good times and bad. There were times when I hated my dad. But, most of the time, I loved him deeply. He was an incredibly complicated man. Much like I am, I suppose.

Seeing him lying in the casket was an awful sight. I remembered the strongest man I had ever seen. But now, he was just lying there. Dead. Strength gone. Him gone. I cried so hard I was inconsolable. And, it took me a full six months to get over his death.

There are still times today, 30 years later, when I think of him and some of the things he used to say, the jokes he used to crack, or his absolute love of his family, and wish I could talk to him. About things I never did as a man. Because I was too proud to do so, making my way as a man of my own. It's easier when you're a kid to ask your dad questions. But when you're a grown-up, you've got something to prove. To your family. Your wife. Your own kids. Him. It's not until you're older that it finally registers.

Dad, I miss you. I Love you. I wish I would've been smarter about talking to you when I was a grown-up.

Mike