4:02am
This is not a VT related post, so if you have come here hoping to find one, there will be no hard feelings should you decide to stop reading now.
My dad was born on February 8, 1947 in a three room hospital in South San Francisco, CA. He grew up three blocks from his birthplace, in a house his immigrant parents purchased not long after arriving from Northern Italy. He was the youngest of two sons, attending Catholic School during his elementary years, moving on into the public sphere for high school, graduating in 1964. He attended the same high school he would end up sending myself and my two siblings to years later. After graduating from high school, he volunteered to join the United States Army and was assigned to an Air Defense Battalion that moved often between Korea and Vietnam and specialized in NIKE Missiles. After two years of active service, he went on to serve three years in the reserves with the Army National Guard.
He married my mom in February 1968. When my sister was born in 1972, my dad joined the Post Office as a Mail Carrier, a job he would rise through the ranks, eventually becoming Post Master in San Carlos, CA, which incidentally, is the same city where I now work in Vision Therapy. He retired in 2003 after five years serving his country and more than 30 years working for the Federal Government.
After retiring, my dad took up golf, remodeled different parts of the house I was raised in, read a lot of books, reacquainted himself with a fly fishing pole, and even continued his passion of volunteering to remodel the only remaining domestic Nike Missile Site (Site SF-88) in the United States; a project which began in 1993 under the tutelage of then retired Major General Milton B. “Bud” Halsey. The Nike Site was opened for tours in 1995, and as a veteran, my dad would talk for hours to anyone who wanted to learn about the 1960’s era defense system. I found out recently that my dad played in integral part in having the Nike Site recognized as a National Monument. After my mom retired in 2014, my parents moved from the San Francisco suburbs into a quiet community built around a golf course in the Sierra Nevada foothills, a stones throw from Lake Tahoe. They made new friends, joined social groups, and even played Bingo at the local VFW.
This past May, my dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, a residual effect of exposure to Agent Orange as well as years of alcohol consumption and unfiltered cigarette smoke inhalation. Since then, I have been participating in very adult conversations, most of which I felt completely unqualified to be a part of, much less be in the room. Topics like advanced directives, plans for hospice care, and survival percentages after numerous rounds of chemo. It was the ultimate test of adulthood, and despite my feelings of inadequacy, my siblings and I stumbled and bumbled our way through it.
My dad took his final breath at 4:02am this morning, and our day was spent grieving, notifying friends and family, and making final arrangements for a funeral with full military honors. Although there is comfort in the knowledge of his ended suffering, the grief process has definitely hit hard today as a parade of family and friends started to fill his home when the news of his passing spread.
From the time I was a little boy, my dad would tell me to “take care of your mother”; often treating this advice as my primary goal in life. Today, tomorrow, and for everyday in the future, his words will be the guiding light on a now unknown and uncharted path. As the surrealism of his passing wears off and reality sets in, I know the tears will subside and we will find more and more joy in his memory, but for now, understanding how to pick up and wield the torch of patriarchy is first and foremost.
Someone once opined that a boy doesn’t become a man until he buries his father. I’m not sure if that is true, but my dad gave me the tools for life, and now more than ever, with tears in my eyes and love in my heart, is my opportunity to demonstrate his job well done. My dad may be gone in body, but his life lessons bestowed will continue in my heart forever.
Without a doubt – absolutely forever.
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So sorry to hear this. You honor your father with your life and words.
Oh Robert. What a beautifully perfect capture of your love and admiration to your father. May his light forever illuminate your your path.
Dearest Robert
Bob and I are so sorry to hear of your dad’s passing. Your words tell us that you loved him very much and honor the life he lived and the example he gave you. May his memory be for a blessing.
I am so sorry sweet friend. This is absolutely beautiful and you used your gift of writing to honor him in such a memorable way. I am here, reach out any time…rants, tears, sharing memories, I am here for it, whatever you need. I will be praying for you and your family.
Dear Robert,
Thank you so much for posting this. Please let your mom, sister and brother know that I am thinking of you all at this time. I always enjoyed talking to your dad.
This is indeed a beautiful tribute to a wonderful father. I know how hard it is to lose someone to that cancer. My brother passed away from esophageal cancer a couple of years ago. I pray that you are comforted by the love of Jesus and have your hope in a distant reunion.
Such a beautiful tribute to your Dad, and so many wonderful memories made and life lessons learned. I’m so sorry for this loss to your family Robert, I’ll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.
My deepest condolences Robert. I am so sorry for the loss of your father. Such a beautiful tribute you wrote for him.
Robert, you really look like your dad! I’m so sorry for these months you all have spent preparing for this day, and for the sorrow of this, and coming days. Burying our parents is very very hard, but I can tell you that you are correct in thinking that in coming days, you will once again find joy and laughter. Be where you are now for as long as you need to be there, and know that so many of us are holding you up remotely. I wish I could have learned about his work with the NIKEs. Jenni
I know you don’t know me but you have helped me many times as a VT. I’m so sorry for your loss. Such inadequate words
So sorry to hear of his suffering. I wish we could have been on his wellness team. If support is needed for processing the grief, I recommend EVOX. It’s a voice frequency biofeedback that can be done remotely with internet and phone, though the software does require a Windows PC. It’s so much faster than talk therapy and goes to a cellular level, so it is also used to clear inherited epigenetic patterns. My Dad is gone, too, and like you I continue to carry him with me in many ways. He put me through VT in the summer after 2nd grade and that transformed my academic life from C’s to A’s. I started working part time as a Vision Therapist in his office in 1972, and got to practice with him for a few years as an OD in the 1980’s. Thank you for sharing your story, and your father’s with us all. Blessings to you both on this next phase of your respective journeys.
Robert, that was a beautiful tribute. He sounds like an amazing man – one you are honoring well in both your words and your life. My prayers are with you and your family.
We expect our favorite people to live forever. Wishing you peace as you navigate a new normal.