Who would I show it to?

A month or so ago (when my dad found out he had pancreatic cancer), he told my stepmom he didn’t want a funeral.  I wasn’t surprised.  Many years ago, after reading Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, I initiated a conversation with dad about what should be done with our bodies when we’re gone.  While I expressed a hope that I would be buried in a natural pine box somewhere in North Carolina, where my family could plant a weeping willow over my grave, Dad simply said to me, “Put me in a trash bag and throw me in the alley.”  He just didn’t believe in a fuss, in life or in death.  

So when dad died last Monday, we had no formal service.  There was no minister talking about the promise of eternal life, no police escort to the graveside.  Just our family in a small, quiet room at a funeral home, shaking hands with old friends who came to show their support.  It's weird: I thought I was relieved to avoid the funeral and the stiff formalities that (to me) never seem to mean very much.  But, now, I feel like I would have liked to have talked publicly about dad, to have shared stories about who he was and what he meant to me. 

The problem is that now I don’t have a venue where I can talk about my dad, except for the internet, which I have irrationally come to hope is a link between the living and dead. What if those geeks in the 1960s accidentally tapped into the cosmic power of the universe?  What if dad can’t hear me talk about him or talk to him, but he can read his Facebook timeline?  Insanely, I find myself only narrowly resisting the urge to post to Dad’s Facebook wall or send him a message, updating him on how we’re handling all of this: “We had the visitation on Saturday.  I had to buy black pants because I didn’t pack any nice clothes.  I kept reminding myself that you wouldn’t want me worrying about what to wear, so I didn’t.  ”

It’s funny: even though I know he is gone and that my delusions of internet immortality are laughable, Dad is still the person I want most to hear what I have to say about him.  There is a poem by WS Merwin I read a long time ago that really captures this feeling for me:

“Elegy”

Who would I show it to?

Dad has always been the person I wanted to show everything to.  My dad is the first person I would call when something amazing happened to me, or if a lot of hard work paid off, or even if I made a simple life choice and wanted praise. I called dad because the first word out of his mouth would be, “Outstanding!”  And the thing is that he meant I was outstanding, that the choices I made were outstanding.   And he truly believed it, every time he said it.  The cool thing, though, is that even if dad didn’t think a choice I made was outstanding (very rare), he still let me make that choice and supported me in it, to the end.

When dad told me on the phone that his cancer had spread throughout his abdominal cavity, preventing even palliative treatment, I cried to him about my son, who will never get a chance to know him.  Dad said, “The cool thing is that you can tell Marshall all sorts of stories about me, anything that you want.  He will think I am a hero!”  I said, “I just want him to know you as you are, the way you are.”  And it’s true.

This blog is about my dad, who he was and how he seemed to me.  I’m not going to write much in each entry, but I just want the opportunity to share with you some things about my dad that make him so special to me. 

Dad, if you’re reading this on some otherworldly laptop computer, I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling these stories about you, online, to a bunch of strangers.  I just want them to know you because I love you and I miss you more than I can say.