Most of us have lost someone, and if we haven’t…logic tells us someday we will. And I know that many of you already have, and that some of those losses are still very present and painful. Recently, my dad passed away. We were very lucky in how he went, and I wrote about that earlier. But today I want to share with you what my brother Jeffrey read at our dad’s funeral. I think he does an amazing job of summing up all the conflicting feelings that go along with saying goodbye to someone. I think you will agree.

Dear Dad,

I thought I’d share with the folks here some of what was said in our last conversation together. Although some of its contents will remain just between us, I thought it’d be nice to let them in on some of our final words, which in this case were only mine, as you couldn’t speak because of your declining health. I feel this might give them insight into what you meant to me, and give me a chance to reiterate what you meant to me once more…

First off, I was very scared to speak to you. You are my father, and obviously we’ve had many conversations before this one, but this one was slightly different, as I knew it was our last. How do you approach something like this? How do you say all that you need to say? How do you know if you’ve said it right? How do you encapsulate a lifetime into a handful of sentences and convey to someone what it is that they meant to you? How do you say ‘I love you’ knowing that it’s the last time those words will ever be heard? After that it’s just spirit, which isn’t bad per se, but a spirit – although a return to one’s highest self – can’t hold your hand, can’t hug you, and can’t smile back. How do you thank someone for life? How do you show your gratitude for their care and love?

One of the initial things I said to you in our last conversation was ‘I just want you to know that I love you.’ A simple statement, but one filled with the yearning for your complete understanding. Of course I love you, as I say it all the time, but do you really know that ‘I love you?’ That I love you for everything that you are and in spite of everything that you aren’t. That your life to me was perfect, especially because of its inherent imperfection. That you have nothing to prove to me and nothing to apologize for. That your successes and failures are equally essential to everything that’s made me ‘me’, and that I wouldn’t change that for the world. You are my father, the only one I’ll ever have, and exactly the one I needed.

Something that followed was ‘I’m so thankful for you.’ Again, not something that hasn’t been said before but something that still needed to be said. Thank you for caring for me so much. Thank you for always making me a priority in your life. Thank you for always making time, the ‘time’, the one thing we never seem to have enough of in our busy lives and yet you always made sure you had plenty of it for me, I can’t thank you enough. And let me just relay that I’ve babysat and been around quite a few young ones at this point and all I can say is that stuff right there is hard. Kids are hard. And especially when life is hard, as it inevitably ends up being at some point, then they’re even harder. But you always had the energy and intent to look me in the eyes and be as present as you could, and for that I am so thankful.

Last in our conversation I said ‘goodbye, for now.’ Now I didn’t say the ‘for now’ part because we’ll meet again in the afterlife, which I’m sure we will and I look forward to a nice tennis match in heaven, but I say ‘for now,’ because I can’t really say goodbye to you in the strictest and most permanent sense of the word because in truth you’ll never really be gone. You’ll always be alive in my heart and in my thoughts. You’ll always be alive in my life, for when I treat a stranger with respect and integrity no matter who they are or where they came from you’re there because you taught me that. When I have fun on the slopes or glide on the ice you’ll be there because you lovingly taught me how to ski and skate. You’re there whenever I smile, for my dimples are just the latest version of yours. And you’re there whenever I pick myself back up after I’ve fallen because you taught me that my dreams and my life are always worth the time and effort. So, you can die all you want, but you can’t stop living within me.

Again, I just want you to know that I love you, that I’m so thankful for you, and goodbye, for now.

Love, your son.

(Jeffrey Geil)

My dad, Philip Douglas Geil, passed away on May 15, 2015. But before you think “How sad!” I’d like to share with you how he left us.

Dad had been living at a care facility, Mesa Vista, since September of last year. They took very good care of him, and even though his balance and walking were awful and his speech getting harder and harder to understand (due to Progressive Supranuclear Palsy), they made sure he was able to socialize, work out, and enjoy meals and outings. Mom visited almost every day, and I think that Mesa Vista was what we hoped it would be for him in many ways: certainly not his first choice of how to live, but considerably more social interaction and mental stimulation than at home. With his ready smile and quick hello, he was definitely a favorite of the staff. Nevertheless, he had made it clear to us for quite some time that he was ready to go. Given how healthy he seemed to be otherwise, it was hard to say when that day might come. But the universe has a way of bringing you what you ask for, if you wish hard enough…and I think dad did.

By the morning of Friday, May 8, after a bout with an infection that seemed to have turned into sepsis, or blood poisoning, hospice had been called in and the consensus was that if we wanted to see him, we’d better get out there ASAP. So two of my siblings and I all flew home that afternoon. It was crazy…I got my ticket at 12pm and had to be at the airport by 1pm! But we all made it, connected at the airport, and drove home together.

He was not very responsive when we arrived on Friday night. On Saturday and Sunday, however, he was much better. We realized he’d actually had a stroke, and didn’t have sepsis at all. The stroke (more likely a couple of them), had paralyzed his right side and he couldn’t talk at all or swallow well. But he was awake much of the day, and knew we were all there. His sister had flown out from Alabama to see him. My third sibling flew back from a dance workshop in Kansas on Saturday. One of our good family friends drove 4 hours from Grand Junction, and her brothers came by as did my old housemate. At one point, we had almost 10 people surrounding his bed!

I left on Sunday, Mother’s Day – after the unexpected bonus of all four of us kids getting to spend it with mom. Suna and I had plans to leave for an Olivia cruise to Alaska on Tuesday. We had all agreed that we should go and have a good time; dad would have wanted that! So we did, and it was wonderful. Before I left, I told dad that if he was ready to go, I was ready for him to go, too, and I hoped it would be quick for him. He was able to give me a hug with his good arm, and earlier he had squeezed my hand to indicate “yes,” what he wanted was to go. He had already arranged to not have any interventions that would prolong life – no feeding tube, IVs, or antibiotics except for comfort and pain relief – and since he couldn’t really eat or drink it was just a matter of time.

Even after I left, my siblings were still there with my mom, with my one sister staying until Thursday. An old tennis buddy of dad’s got the call from mom on Monday as he was heading to the airport, and he changed his flight and drove back to Boulder to visit. Another dear friend even flew in from Australia! By the time she arrived on Wednesday, dad was sleeping much more, and barely opening his eyes – but he knew she was there. By Thursday, he was no longer responsive.

On Friday, May 15^th, Suna and I were in Juneau, our first day in port (and with cell service). So I called mom to talk. Mom had stepped out of dad’s room a few minutes earlier for a break, and we chatted for a while about how he was doing, how the nurses all told her in their experience the person goes when the loved ones leave the room, and so on. Suddenly mom said “Kim, stop!” The nurse had come to say that she had gone into dad’s room to check on him, and discovered that he had passed away. Just as they had predicted, he had made his transition when mom was out of the room, and as it turned out, when we were on the phone together.

I feel so lucky to be able to have been with mom when dad went, and here we’d wondered if I’d even get the news right away because of being on the cruise. I sat on a bench in the sun outside the cruise ship while mom and I processed that he was really gone, and a huge raven flew down to peck at crumbs near my feet. Later that afternoon, Suna and I hiked up Mt. Roberts to the top of the tram. It seemed to be a fitting way to honor dad, and at the gift shop I found the perfect raven mug to remember him by.

I am grateful in many ways around my dad’s death. Honestly, it was about as good as it gets. It wasn’t sudden, and he wasn’t taken from us too soon. The last several times my siblings and I had seen him, we all knew it might be the last time. We had said what we wanted to say and made our peace. We knew he loved us and we loved him, and that was enough. So please, don’t be sad for us, or for dad. I have no doubt he’s where he wants to be!

Over Memorial Day weekend, Suna and I flew to Chicago so that we could attend a graveside memorial service for her father, John Kneisley. While there had been a funeral mass held in Riverside right after his death, this ceremony was held in his hometown of Kouts, Indiana, with military honors (he served in Korea during the Vietnam War).

It was a beautiful day, and people from many stages of John’s life came for the occasion: his cousin and her husband flew out from D.C., his 90-year-old uncle and his wife drove out from Kansas City, his best friend from college, his boss from two universities, two new friends he’d met since he moved to California, a classmate who still lived down the same road in Kouts where she had grown up.

The bustling metropolis of Kouts currently boasts a population of just under 2,000 people; more than double what it was in the 1950’s, when John was a young boy. After the ceremony and the reception, Suna’s Uncle Bill and Aunt Terri drove us around their old neighborhood, showing us the farm Suna’s grandfather had worked after his factory shifts, the house her dad had grown up in, and her grandma’s house.

The current occupant of Grandma Bessie’s house was home, and he gladly let us wander inside. Suna walked around the house with him, telling him how her grandma used each room, while he pointed out the changes and upgrades he had made…lacquering the insides of the cabinets and drawers, moving a closet. He pointed out the frame around the door into the kitchen, on which Suna’s grandma had marked the changing heights of her and her brother. He even offered to rip it out so she could take it home!

After our visit to the neighborhood, we went back to the bar on the corner of the main (only?) intersection in town. We drank a beer in memory of her dad with his California friends Ed & T.C., her Uncle Mike and Aunt Rita, and her Aunt Kim and Uncle Jim. Probably the highlight of the trip for both Suna and myself was getting to spend time with her aunts and uncles. Hearing their stories of growing up in Kouts, their memories of her father and grandmother, the good times and the bad times – it was all priceless.

And yet, technically they’re not really her aunts and uncles. Suna’s father didn’t have any siblings, but he and the three Hefron kids down the street (Mike, Bill, & Kim) spent so much time together growing up they might as well have been. Just another reminder that family doesn’t have to be blood. It’s wonderful when families are close to each other, and I count myself very lucky to be as close as I am to my parents and my siblings—but it doesn’t always work out that way. The family we choose can be just as important to us as the ones we are related to by blood. For that matter, Suna and her dad may not have been biologically related (he adopted her when he married her mom), but really, who cares? He was her dad. He raised her, cared for her, didn’t always do the right thing but always tried to do his best for her, and was the most consistent family member in her life, especially in recent years. Family takes many forms – cherish them, however they come to you!

“I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life.” – Maya Angelou

“I sustain myself with the love of family.” – Maya Angelou

“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life.” – Richard Bach

2013 ended on a sad note…my partner’s father passed away, after fighting cancer for the past four years. Fortunately, we were able to spend the holidays and his birthday with him, and she was able to say all the things she wanted to tell him, knowing that the end was likely near.

This experience has made me think about how important it is to do the things that really matter to us…whatever they may be…in the time we have on this earth. I was inspired by the writings of a nurse named Bronnie Ware who spent many years providing palliative care to the dying. Among her patients, there were some common themes regarding the things they wished they’d done differently in their lives:

1. A wish that they’d had the courage to live a life true to themselves, and not the life others expected of them.
2. A wish that they hadn’t spent so much time working.
3. A wish that they’d had the courage to express their feelings.
4. A wish that they had stayed in touch with their friends.
5. A wish that they had let themselves be happier.

I also came across an essay by a hospice chaplain, Kerry Egan, and what she talks about when she goes to counsel the dying. What do you suppose it is? Family. Her patients talk about their sons and daughters, partners and spouses, mothers and daughters, their family of friends, all the people they have loved (or didn’t love well), and who have shown them love (or withheld it), throughout their lives. She argues that the meaning of the human experience is to learn how to love, and also how to forgive.

So my wish for all of us, as we head into a new year, is that we might find ways to be true to ourselves, spend time with the people we love, say what we really want to say, keep in touch with our friends and family, forgive those who have hurt us, and let ourselves be happy!