MY DEAR OLD DAD DIES AT 99.5. YES, 1924-2024, THE .5 COUNTS!

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.” Mark Twain

In the wee hours of July 5th, my father passed away from this world. Being rather polite, as July 4th was a long-standing family holiday.

Larger than life, quick with a joke masking the tenderness I know was buried inside. This begs the question: Are men born in 1924 raised to show their feelings? NO. Being raised to be a man and caring for business does not include feelings.

When I was 16, my parents and I traveled to the East Coast. We ordered Mai Thia’s at Trader Vics in New York, where he had a rum-filled moment of confession: “I am flippant on the outside but not on the inside.” I knew what he meant.

His armor was his charm, humor, and undying optimism.

Three weeks ago, he was checked into the hospital with pneumonia.

My dear dad:

Let’s see, he walked me down the aisle twice. The third time, I thought elopement would serve me better! So far, it has.

Deeply in love with my Mom, 76 years married, that is something. That ‘stay married’ to the ‘first-one’ gene, which did not get passed along to me, but alas, our journeys are to be different.

He was a golfer, a badminton player, a bridge player, a World War II veteran, and a diehard USC Trojan football fan. I had the privilege of going to games for years because he had 13 seats for season tickets. 13 was his lucky number because he met my mom on June 13.

FIGHT ON! carried his theme through life, love, and family.

He was a reader. One good book after the next. Maybe that is why I became an author??? I’ll need a shrink for that question.
My dad was like Santa Claus, and Superman rolled into one. Oh, Lord, it sounds like I have daddy issues. Anywhoo, his presence never shrank to fit.

He showed up from my horse competitions and, years later, attended all of my children’s events, such as t-ball, church on Sundays, and college volleyball. He walked my daughter through the field on her wedding day, flanked by her dad. He stood tall at 6’4. I hauled him off to yoga in his nineties. I did chair yoga with him, and he was strong and agile. I later had the same yoga teacher come to their home to help my folks with their flexibility and strength.

His weakness was his family; trying to “help” grown adults inevitably drove him to the poor house. He shared from his hospital bed that was his regret. The irony in the plot is that my husband is a financial advisor, trying to keep him from making unwise choices to no avail. That being said, my dad was clear as a bell and kept soldiering on his path of co-dependence.

The attending nurse asked him in the hospital, “I see your name is Chris and Homer. What would you like to be called? He replied, “Handsome”.

He didn’t make it to 100 or the upcoming football season. Plus, he broke a promise to my uncle, who said in front of me, “Do not die before the sisters.” (My mom and her sister, my aunt) Leaving my mom behind had to be the hardest thing for him. But he was as bright as a blub to his very last day; he made every day count. When asked, “How are you today?” his chin up always replies, “Hopeful.”

If you had the privilege of knowing my dad, having a drink with him, and absorbing his humor, your life would undoubtedly be a little brighter.

My Mantra: “He was more than just “my” dad. If you knew him, I am also sorry for your loss.”