"And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Several years ago I was reminded of these words by the poet, Dylan Thomas, as my father struggled through the winter. His breathing, which had become more labored and difficult through the few years leading up to those moments had deteriorated badly. He was hospitalized for several days on different occasions both before and after Christmas. I couldn't help but think at the time that he, like his father before him, was going to die just before we got to celebrate.
In my heart, something strange happened. I accepted the possibility that I would one day live my life without my father. I prayed for his healing, and hoped for the recovery of his strength, but I knew then what I had never really known before: my Dad was not invulnerable. He had been through surgeries before. I had seen him weakened, and then recovered. He had been through surgeries even before I was born. He had fought a long, at times losing, battle just to be alive. But never before had I thought that death would win. Always I expected him to get back up, walk back through the door at the house by the lake, and fill up the corners of my life with his presence again.
True to form, he did just that. He recovered, some would even say miraculously. He worked on his breathing, trying to learn how to improve the quality of his life. He eventually started working out at the local YMCA, carrying his oxygen tank with him on the treadmill, into the pool, and even into the Nautilus room where I never saw him, but always imagined him working on his bicep curls. The first time I ever walked into the Y with him, everyone at the desk lit up at his approach. He was, as I would have expected, both known and liked, because he always had the time to talk, and more importantly the time to listen. I joked that he was the mayor of the Y, but when his local branch chose to honor a "Member of the Year" a few months ago, Dad was the one they chose.
He kept working, kept raging against the dying of the light, but the last few months brought even more tears as he labored to push back the darkness of death and let in the light. Last week he decided to attempt a rather risky surgery to try to alleviate some of his difficulty breathing. I don't know that I fully appreciated the risks when he talked with me about it, but I think he did. He made it through the initial surgery, but as he recovered one of his lungs began to leak air. When they went in to repair the lung, the surgeons were unsuccessful. I heard from my sister as I drove from Rhode Island to Connecticut that I needed to get there soon.
I spent the rest of the drive with tears running down my face as the potential reality of a few years earlier became the actual reality in my heart. I was going to live the rest of my life without my father. On Saturday evening, at around 6:20, my father won his long battle, even while I lost mine. The light faded in his eyes, but I'm convinced it was only a moment before he opened the eyes of his soul in the bright light of eternity.
His death has left an enormous void in my life, and the lives of so many others. To say I will miss him doesn't seem to do justice to the weight of his life. His presence filled up the empty spaces of my life. He was in every major moment of my life - both the good ones and the bad ones - and he always made those moments more significant by his presence. He won't be there for the rest of those life moments. He won't see the kids graduate from college, or get married, or celebrate with Rita and me when we've been married for 25 years. He won't be there with us physically, but I'll carry his memory with me into those moments, and hope that his presence still fills them up when I get there.
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