A Conversation with Dad

A post on Instagram from @griefandgrits opened a door to my memories. Randi Pearlman Wolfson posted this: “I never could have imagined living without you. Did you ever imagine that you would never again, see me?”

Instantly, I was back in August 1991. A beautiful August afternoon. My Dad is sitting in the living room on an oversized, velvety soft chair. I’m sitting on the right arm of the chair talking with him. Randi’s post magically transformed me to that exact moment in my past: to this particular conversation with my Dad. You see, he died a few weeks later on September 5.

Did you ever imagine that you would never again, see me?

Yes, I’m certain you did. Sitting in that chair, Dad asked me if he had done everything he could to be sure I was happy. I told him I was happy just being with him. I told him he was the best father and I was so lucky because, now my son has the best grandfather! We talked about his favorite Scottish songs and he sang a few verses. He smiled and breathed deeply. He held my hand. We were both in a moment - just the two of us. No distractions. Except reality. Truth was, my Dad had brain cancer. He had endured three brain surgeries over the previous 18 months. He just kept fighting and smiling. I just kept on hoping. It couldn’t have been that bad. We just needed more time to recover.

I never could have imagined living without you. Never.

I didn’t see what everyone else saw. I looked at him with my heart - not my head. I still feel his touch when I embrace this memory. It will be 30 years this September. There are so many memories that have faded. But Randi’s post brought life back to this moment on a summer’s afternoon - around 4pm - sitting on an arm chair - in a private conversation - just Dad and me. That was the last one. The last conversation. Yes, we spoke many times between then and September 5. Mostly about “How are you feeling?” “Do you need anything?” “I’m so sorry your headaches are so bad!” “Let’s just sit so you can rest.” Our last days were filled with medications and hope and wonder and love.

I never could have imagined living without you.

On September 4, I visited Dad in the hospital. He had changed physically. He spoke very little but each word had such meaning. I convinced myself that he will be home again soon. And we will have more conversations and I will be happy just being with him.

On September 5, 1991, around 8:15 in the evening, my son was asleep in his crib and I was in the garden, praying. The phone in the kitchen rang. It was my mother calling from the hospital. All I remember hearing is “He took his last breath.”

To this day, I’m not sure how long I sat on my kitchen floor weeping.