As I shared in my last post, three weeks ago today (Thursday, July 1, 2020) my Dad died unexpectedly.
On Saturday, July 10, 2020, we had his funeral at St. Nick’s Parish church in Evanston and laid him to rest at Memorial Park cemetery in Skokie.
As the spirit moves me, I will share memories and other things that are helping me to process my Dad’s death.
I found that so helpful as I was grieving Molly’s death in those early weeks/months/years and continue to find comfort writing about my experience as a bereaved mother.
Likewise, I think writing and sharing here will help me as I navigate life as a bereaved daughter.
The night that Dad died, I was preparing for my first colonoscopy scheduled for the next day. I ended up being awake most of the night, between having to use the bathroom and starting to process his death (though surely I was mostly in shock). All night long, as memories of and snippets related to Dad started flooding my brain, I typed them into the Notes app on my phone. These notes were helpful later on, when I wrote Dad’s obituary and the eulogy that I gave at his funeral.
This is the eulogy that I wrote, with awesome edits and feedback from Bob. He is especially good at helping me make clear points with what I am saying, as opposed to sharing a story without a purpose. At the end I have included a video clip from Dad’s Funeral, of my giving the eulogy, as we live streamed it. You can watch the entire funeral mass here on YouTube. I did a bit of ad libbing, so the text below doesn’t match up exactly in some sections. It was therapeutic for me to honor my Dad’s life and legacy in this way. I know that he would be/is very proud of me.
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It was on one of our many annual family road trips, driving to/from Columbus, Ohio or Hilton Head Island, SC, to visit Dad’s and Mom’s parents, during one of our many pit stops to fill up with gas and stretch our legs, that Dad found this little toy car on the ground and handed it to me, saying,
“Don’t say I never gave you anything…”
As a teenager, I thought that was so funny and so sweet at the same time, capturing so much of what made Dad, Dad, or Grandpa Kevin, or Kev to so many of you, that mix of offbeat humor and genuine kindness.
Dad was often being sillier and goofier than situations called for. Especially when I was younger, he could make me laugh uncontrollably, just by looking at me in a certain way.
It won’t surprise many of you who know me to find out that I saved that little toy car, displaying it on my dresser in my bedroom, at home on 3030 Isabella, where Mom and Dad lived for over 40 years. Then, I brought it with me to college, as one of many special mementos that brought me comfort and reminded me of those who were rooting for and supporting me back home, especially Dad.
The day Mom and Dad moved me into my dorm room at Allen Hall on the University of Illinois campus in August 1993, as I was unpacking my stuff and arranging things, Dad noticed and picked up the little toy car, not recalling gifting it to me at that gas-station and asked about its significance. He seemed blown away by the story I shared, as well as that I had held onto it ever since.
Sometime later Dad relayed to me what it felt like for him to return home to 3030 Isabella, after they left me, their younger child and last to leave the nest, at the University of Illinois to start my freshman year of college. He said that he found himself standing at the door of my empty bedroom, looking at my dresser, remembering that little toy car, missing me and crying.
Dad felt his emotions deeply and shared them freely, especially tears of joy, which often accompanied his being moved by beautiful music and theater productions. I have vivid memories of sitting near Dad at church, watching him sing and harmonize, as he did so well, while tearing up because of how touched he was by the experience.
“Early grief is largely this — crashing again and again into a reality that can’t be real.” This quote, from author and therapist Megan Devine, who lost her partner unexpectedly, when he literally got swept away in a river and drowned, captures so well how it feels to navigate the death of loved ones, especially when they die unexpectedly, and it really resonates with me.
Our Axe family, and surely many of you, have found ourselves crashing up against the reality of Dad’s unexpected death over and over again since Thursday, July 1st or whenever you heard the news. One day recently Abby told us that she has to remind herself about once an hour that it really happened, and it wasn’t just a bad dream.
For the last few years, because of Dad’s age and health conditions, I had been trying to prepare myself for the inevitable, when he would die. I tried not to take our time together for granted and made a point to be present and intentional during our goodbyes. Of course, the pandemic made that more challenging. That said, we are never prepared for the death of a parent.
No matter how many times we crash into that reality, in these early days, it still feels so surreal.
When Dad actually died, I couldn’t be there, as I was literally shitting myself, in preparation for my first colonoscopy scheduled for the next day. I’ve been able to find some peace and comfort in knowing that he would’ve thought that was hilarious! The last time we were together in person, a week ago on Tuesday, every time I would reference getting ready for the colonoscopy, he’d say, “no shit!”
Towards the end of his life, Dad was struggling with his faith. As many of you know, there were always aspects of Church doctrine that he disagreed with, however in recent years, he also had a difficult time connecting with some aspects of more traditional theology. That said, Dad never lost his commitment service and social justice, which he believed was an important part of living his faith. Our family tried to honor that in the readings, songs and prayers we chose for his funeral mass today. We know how much he would’ve loved the selections we made, as they all were meaningful to him on his faith journey, Dad would’ve appreciated the short and profound Old Testament reading from Micah, that allows us to ponder what it means to walk humbly with God. Dad and Mom’s journey led them to various church communities over the years, including the Peg Group, when they first moved to Evanston, followed by Sheil Catholic Center, and finally, here to St. Nick’s.
Dad was also a feminist and if he’d gotten his wish, with all due respect Fr. Bob, a woman would have celebrated his funeral mass. However, he was a big fan of Fr. Bob and would be grateful for how his friend and retired pastor has helped to shepherd us through this bittersweet experience, navigating these early days crashing again and again into the reality of Dad’s death.
Dad would also be so proud that half of his pallbearers are women, especially three of his daughters’ closest friends, Abi, Amy and Katie, whom he also adored. He looked forward to their visits in our younger days and enjoyed hearing updates on their lives in our older days through Meg and I or seeing them at social gatherings.
Two days before Dad died, I was fortunate to have spent much of the day with him. I had taken him for blood work and a COVID test (even though he was fully vaccinated), in advance of the angiogram he was scheduled to have on Friday. His death that Thursday night was definitely unexpected. However, I do find some comfort in the special memories I have from our time together the day.
As we were driving together that day, it was clear to me how proud Dad was of Mom, Bob, Sean, Abby and me, which I know extended to my sister Meg, Bill, Cora and Dean, as well as so many of his dear friends. Dad commented on how exciting it was that Sean, his first grandchild, had recently gotten his driver’s license and was spending his summer working at an overnight camp (YMCA Camp Echo) in Freemont, MI, his first real job.
Dad knew how much Abby was enjoying the summer intensive dance programs that she has been participating in here in Evanston and commented on how creative she is, especially when she is drawing cartoon characters inspired by her family and friends.
Dad was also proud and happy that I had been invited for a second interview this week, for a FT job in the traditional workforce. He knew how excited I was and was helping me prepare and giving me tips, including specific questions to ask and things to say.
I got to introduce him to my current favorite song, “Orpheus” by Sarah Bareilles, while we were driving together. Since his hearing aids didn’t always serve him well, he turned up the volume to hear the lyrics better. I was able to point out two of my favorite lines in the song: “We did not give up on love today” and “I hope that my love is someone else’s solid ground.”
Though Dad had a very difficult life in many ways, at various ages and stages, I am so proud that he never gave up on love in this lifetime and I am incredibly grateful for his love being such an important part of my solid ground.
One of the last things that Dad and I did together, was to drive by the old house at 3030 Isabella, on our way back to Three Crowns Park. He enjoyed seeing the old house and he commented that it “looks pretty much the same.”
(PAUSE)
Dad, I will never say that you didn’t give me anything!
You gave Mom, Meg, Bob, Bill, Sean, Molly, Abby, Cora, Dean and me so much, which helped each of us become who we are today!
Sure, we navigated through some really hard times, when we didn’t see eye to eye, which usually led to deepening our relationship and a better understanding of each other.
However, there was never any question in my mind and heart how much you loved me and all of us and I believe you always knew how much we loved and adored you too.
As an old childhood friend affirmed this week, crashing into the reality of a parent’s death can feel excruciating and I find comfort in knowing that the gifts that you gave each of us, your beloved family and friends, will help us never to give up on love and life, as you didn’t, even when it was hard, especially when it was hard.
We can do hard things
and we will,
one next right thing at a time.
If and when we might feel any regrets, and wonder, “what if?” we will try to remind ourselves that “we make the best decisions we can, with the information we have at the time.”
Abby asked us one-night last week if we could have one more conversation with you what would we want to ask you?
Fr. Bob reminded us earlier this week, about an article you wrote years ago about communion with the saints, in the sense of how we can stay connected to our loved ones who have died. In it you talked about our conversations continuing, only they won’t be in person anymore. I also find comfort in that idea, that our conversations don’t have to end, just because you died.
We can continue to communicate, even if it feels more one-sided at times. After 46 years of being your daughter, as I continue to crash into the reality of your death, I know that I can continue our conversations and take it from there.
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