Dharma Bum Lost - Role Model and Father

My dad died a year ago this Wednesday, on November 9th, 2004. I think it would have been easier to mourn his loss if I'd had some time with it. But three months after his death my brother committed suicide. It made the loss of my father pale in comparison to the sense of despair and confusion of having lost my best friend and soul mate. But, today I'm not writing about my brother. That'll come soon...and often.

About a week before my dad's death my six-year-old son and I drove up to Maine to visit him. I didn't really believe it would be the last time I'd ever see Dad. But, that "damn cold" seemed to have gotten the best of him. Time was running out. Lung cancer is a son-of-a-bitch. This self-realized 73-year-old man had indulged in the illiteracy of youth for too many years, drinking, smoking, carousing, neglecting not only his body, but that which came with career, marriage and fatherhood.

It hurts just to say those words. Look at him now and it seems unbelievable. The person who had beaten down so many obstacles, this one human being who'd become as close to an angel as any, was nearing his end on this earth. The recovered alcoholic, absentee father of my childhood had become a pillar of morality, strength and inspiration to me and so many others. In the thirty-plus years of his sobriety he'd spent the majority of it counseling and helping those battling with alcoholism and addictions, rebuilding a torn marriage with my mother and developing a meaningful relationship with his three children.

He was laying in bed, wearing, as usual, the longsleeved, white mock turtleneck with the logo from my Everest expedition on it. I swear it was the only thing he wore in the last year of his life. And bet you a nickel he died in it. On the sleeve was the Buddhist "Om" symbol, the symbol of peace. On the back, the logo featured a rocky peak with a single eye over the summit, a symbol of knowledge.

My son and I walk upstairs to see him, his six-foot-two frame more fragile than the last time I saw him. He reaches out, smiling.

"It's okay, Will, you can get up on the bed with him." My boy shows wisdom beyond his years (and mine), and he crawls beside my dad, cuddling beside him, giving him a long, loving embrace.

"How ya feeling, Dad?"

"Ugh. Awful. But, we'll beat this thing...." Classic Dad: no need to worry us with talk of death or anything!

Then, between breaths and some coughs, my dad proceeds to tell Will about me, about life, about the man that Will will one day become. Before my eyes I witness the passing of knowledge from one generation to the next. Will strokes my dad's hair, staring into his eyes, laughing from time to time, nudging so close to him that he ends up on top of him.

Less than a week later, my dad died in his bed. My mom and sister had just walked downstairs for a short break. He snuck out when they weren't looking.

He leaves me behind with only one regret: that my two boys won't grow up with their Grampie around. So, I'll try to mark this anniversary in some meaningful way. I can do this as a testament to him, by keeping the memory of his example bright, to pass along the spirit of a gentle soul who became a guide to so many, to be sure that in his passing the light of hope and goodness is every bit as strong.

Thanks Dad. I feel you here now. Look over my boys and guide them.

And, be sure to tell Jeff I say hi.

Your boy.