December 29, 2010
"Warts and all" my father would say. It wasn't one of the more famous "Royisms." Certainly not up there with "beer-thirty" or "able to sit up and take nourishment." I'm not even sure that too many people heard him say it or would have remembered if they did. But, for me, it embodies his life in a way that no other expression of his did or could. It was an expression of love - the true love that, as he explained, only fully-developed humans could feel.
"Don't ever assume that animals and small children love you," he taught me. And it's true. A child may at one moment, with every fiber of his being, feel an affection that is deep and irrefutable. But it is based on the circumstances of that moment and his whims. In an instant he may hate you just as deeply for reasons equally circumstantial.
The human species is the only one on this planet that is able to consider the totality of a person - those things that are admirable as well as those that are despicable - and still make a conscious decision to love - "warts and all." I am of the opinion that love can only be expressed in this way - with the full knowledge of imperfections. My father did not make it hard to discover his imperfections. While I'm sure this was not always so over the course of his life, the man that I got to know and love was so - quite imperfect in ways too innumerable to mention. And it was my pleasure to witness how he overcame an equally countless number of those imperfections. And, as you would expect, he took many of them to his grave as well. That may help to explain why I have a hard time missing him.
Don't get me wrong. I miss him in ways I can't possibly express. When he drew his last breath there were things lost to me that I will never recover - some that I never discovered - and I will grieve that loss for the rest of my days. But I am not overwhelmed by such feelings.
Those things he left behind are so much more palpable than those things that were lost. And his life- lessons, both intentional and unintentional, resonate with no less intensity for me. His life is not defined by his death.
It did not take long to figure out that this year would mark a year of "firsts" without him. And so it was. We have all celebrated birthdays, holidays and milestones over the past year that he would have been pleased to celebrate with us. So I have been pleased to celebrate each of these for him. I suppose I will think this way less and less over time. But I am sure I will never entirely stop, either. And that is a measure of comfort. But for this year I have, albeit quietly, marked these occasions quite dutifully. A year ago today I was spending my first full day of life without him. And today marks a complete year.
It has been a year of changes, triumphs and defeats for those of us amongst the living. And I suppose one might focus on the fact that my father hasn't been here to witness them or to experience such things for himself. It just seems so pointless to think of how he is no longer changing when, in so many ways, he continues to change me. Warts and all.
Obituary
Maj. Roy E. Tipton
December 28, 2009
Roy E. Tipton, age 87 of Hillsdale. A lifelong learner, teacher and unabashed idealist, Roy Tipton will be remembered for his steadfast loyalty to his friends, family and country. He was born August 19, 1922 in Madison County Kentucky to Roy and Mary Willie (Fielder) Tipton. He began his professional life as a soldier, enlisting in the army in 1939. After a brief, 12-day training period was “turned to duty” as a private in the 10th Infantry. After being stationed at Fort Custer, Michigan he was deployed to Iceland in 1941 where, having been promoted to sergeant, he served until he was accepted to Officer Candidate School in December of 1942.
On April 17, 1943 he graduated from OCS and was commissioned a second lieutenant. This accomplishment was particularly notable since he had not yet completed his high school education. He was eventually assigned to the 351st Infantry Regiment of the 88th Division in May of 1944 and participated in the liberation of Italy from the Nazi invasion. In July of the same year he assumed command of L Company during the battle of Laiatico. After the two other rifle companies of the 3rd Battalion had been rendered incapable of combat by the enemy he led his company in a night attack resulting in the capture of over 200 German soldiers without a single casualty to his men. This action decided the battle and the 3rd Battalion was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for its outstanding performance – the equivalent of every man in the unit receiving the Distinguished Service Cross.
Eventually attaining the rank of major, he served in the Korean Military Advisory Group during the Korean War and was commander of Fulda Post, Germany from January 1957 to August 1958. After a career that spanned 20 years he retired from active military duty on October 31, 1959 at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana.
In 1963 he graduated from Western Michigan University with a masters degree in guidance and counseling. He later settled in Hillsdale, Michigan where he served as high school guidance counselor from 1966 to 1976 and was a well-known fixture in the community for the remainder of his life. An avid barbershop singer and 35-year member of the Barbershop Harmony Society he sang with the Hudson, Coldwater and Jackson chapters before helping to found the Hillsdale chapter.
He is survived by Frances (Ford) Tipton, his wife of 43 years; Three children: Sharon Tipton of Kalamazoo; David (Ellen) Tipton of Battle Creek; and Matthew (Josie) Tipton of Sterling Heights; Seven granddaughters: Arrow Tipton; Erin Tipton; Emily (Ian) Bobinac; Sara Tipton; Abigail Tipton; Gwendolyn Tipton; and Meredith Tipton; two great-granddaughters and a great-grandson; A brother: Lemuel Ray (Jean) Tipton of Dry Ridge, Kentucky; A beloved niece: Jean Ann (Mark) Powell of Walton, Kentucky; two grand-nieces: Rachel and Ashlynn Powell. He was preceded in death by a son: Michael (Denise) Tipton (2009); and a brother: Denville Tipton (1945).
Funeral services for Roy Tipton will be Monday, January 4, 2010 at 11:00 am at the VanHorn-Eagle Funeral Home in Hillsdale with Pastor Ned Wyse officiating. Interment with full military honors will take place at Fort Custer National Cemetery in Augusta, Michigan on Monday at 2:30 pm. The family will receive friends for visitation Sunday from noon to 4:00 pm and 6:00 to 8:00 pm at the VanHorn-Eagle Funeral Home. The Hillsdale Town & Country barbershop chorus will pay a musical tribute at 7:00 pm.
Suggested memorials include Hospice of Hillsdale, the Hillsdale Town and Country Chorus and Harmony Foundation.
Click Here for a map of all service locations
Eternity
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
My dad had several subjects - entire classes - he could just teach at the drop of a proverbial hat. One such class he called "Critical Thinking." He taught students in this course to examine some typical scenarios and concepts more deeply than they might otherwise be asked to do. Eternity, he taught, along with infinity, are concepts that are beyond the ability of the human brain to truly understand.
He would ask his students to hold up one hand and imagine that they were grasping the end of a string. The students were then to envision this string as it went from their fingertips, out the window and then on for infinity. Picture in their minds, they were asked, the entirety of this string. The futility of this exercise shows that while the brain can acknowledge the existence of infinity, it cannot truly comprehend it.
The same is true for eternity. As the mind travels backward or forward in time events are preceded and succeeded by other events but there is no way to grasp the totality of time, only periods of it. Consider that, as the instructor, he was quite a bit older than anyone else in the room and presumably would die many years before any of the students. But no matter how many years he or anyone would die before anyone else, everyone in the room would spend the same amount of time being dead - eternity.
At 10:14 pm on December 28, 2009 Roy E. Tipton became eternal. Forty-one years, one day, five hours and thirteen minutes. That was the amount of time I shared on Earth with my dad. That time has shaped and will continue to shape the rest of my living years - I suspect in some ways I haven't even considered. The last 84 days of that time have been spent making sure that he would be able to pass from this life in a dignified manner of his choosing in as much comfort as possible. We never suspected it would take this long or that the journey would lead us to some of the places it did. But, as I learned in another course of study with my father, a good plan is one that does not have to be adhered to with absolute rigidity to be a success. So, while not all events in this time were anticipated or even desired, we have stayed devoted to those things that made him comfortable in the life he had remaining. His passing was as peaceful as any of us could imagine and we were at his side until the very end. Mission accomplished.
My dad had several subjects - entire classes - he could just teach at the drop of a proverbial hat. One such class he called "Critical Thinking." He taught students in this course to examine some typical scenarios and concepts more deeply than they might otherwise be asked to do. Eternity, he taught, along with infinity, are concepts that are beyond the ability of the human brain to truly understand.
He would ask his students to hold up one hand and imagine that they were grasping the end of a string. The students were then to envision this string as it went from their fingertips, out the window and then on for infinity. Picture in their minds, they were asked, the entirety of this string. The futility of this exercise shows that while the brain can acknowledge the existence of infinity, it cannot truly comprehend it.
The same is true for eternity. As the mind travels backward or forward in time events are preceded and succeeded by other events but there is no way to grasp the totality of time, only periods of it. Consider that, as the instructor, he was quite a bit older than anyone else in the room and presumably would die many years before any of the students. But no matter how many years he or anyone would die before anyone else, everyone in the room would spend the same amount of time being dead - eternity.
At 10:14 pm on December 28, 2009 Roy E. Tipton became eternal. Forty-one years, one day, five hours and thirteen minutes. That was the amount of time I shared on Earth with my dad. That time has shaped and will continue to shape the rest of my living years - I suspect in some ways I haven't even considered. The last 84 days of that time have been spent making sure that he would be able to pass from this life in a dignified manner of his choosing in as much comfort as possible. We never suspected it would take this long or that the journey would lead us to some of the places it did. But, as I learned in another course of study with my father, a good plan is one that does not have to be adhered to with absolute rigidity to be a success. So, while not all events in this time were anticipated or even desired, we have stayed devoted to those things that made him comfortable in the life he had remaining. His passing was as peaceful as any of us could imagine and we were at his side until the very end. Mission accomplished.
The Hard Part
Monday, December 28, 2009
There is very little change to report since my last update yesterday. But that is telling in itself. Since the fever subsided it has not returned. But neither has Roy and, frankly, we don't expect him to. It is difficult to describe the state he is now in. Not quite asleep, not quite awake. Not totally unconscious but certainly not relating to his surroundings if he is aware of them at all. As the hours pass, however, he seems to slip little by little away from the present.
My mom has said a number of times that all that is left is the hard part. Hard for us more than him really. If you ask me we are doing a pretty good job of keeping him comfortable. His lungs are getting less efficient at processing the oxygen, however, and we can hear the fluid starting to build up in them. Comfortable is relative here.
It seems clear that we are witnessing his final hours. There is no way to know how many or few they are. But the signs say that hours are the appropriate unit of measure.
There is very little change to report since my last update yesterday. But that is telling in itself. Since the fever subsided it has not returned. But neither has Roy and, frankly, we don't expect him to. It is difficult to describe the state he is now in. Not quite asleep, not quite awake. Not totally unconscious but certainly not relating to his surroundings if he is aware of them at all. As the hours pass, however, he seems to slip little by little away from the present.
My mom has said a number of times that all that is left is the hard part. Hard for us more than him really. If you ask me we are doing a pretty good job of keeping him comfortable. His lungs are getting less efficient at processing the oxygen, however, and we can hear the fluid starting to build up in them. Comfortable is relative here.
It seems clear that we are witnessing his final hours. There is no way to know how many or few they are. But the signs say that hours are the appropriate unit of measure.
Developments
Sunday, December 27, 2009
I have not offered an update in several weeks now. As my last post stated, we had settled into a routine that redefined normal. It seemed pointless and maybe even a bit self-serving to continue posting updates on a condition that wasn’t changing. Surely we have had good days and bad since then - days without waking up, nights without sleep, days of coming out into his recliner, visiting with company and spouting gibberish as if we all could understand what "exploding pasta" and other such nonsense meant. And, to be frank, I am not of the "twitter" generation. I find sharing the detail of every little experience diminishes those experiences rather than enhancing them. Please excuse the fact that not posting updates was mostly for selfish reasons. As of today that has changed.
Our holidays have passed largely as they would have any other year. Granted, they aren’t over and it now seems that the remainder of the holiday season will not be the same - though it is hard to know what will happen from one minute to the next. But I have an odd feeling of pride that so far we have been able to gather in much the same way as usual and find meaningful ways of including my dad in the experience. On Christmas day he was able to spend quite a bit of time out of his bed, even opening a couple of gifts and having a bit of Christmas dinner in his recliner near the rest of us at the table. 11 weeks ago, as we were preparing to check out of Borgess hospital, my sister said "Who knows? Maybe Roy will pull one more rabbit out of his hat." That seemed utterly impossible - maybe even undesirable since a meaningful recovery was not even being attempted. We brought him home that night and began plans for a funeral. We prepared our hearts for a holiday season without him. But this Christmas we got a rabbit instead.
It was understandable that the day after Christmas he was "wiped out." But he was a bit out of sorts as this new normal has defined them. My mom kept saying, "He hasn’t been like this before." But he has been like this before - when he was in and coming home from the hospital; when he was actively dying. By nightfall he started to show signs of a fever. A cold compress kept him comfortable for the most part and we got some Tylenol in him. That was a bit difficult because even though he was awake he was not completely responsive. When instructed to open his mouth he would clench his teeth instead out of confusion. That made taking his temperature impossible. My mom wanted to call a hospice nurse but it was midnight and we really seemed to be doing OK on our own. No sense, I thought, in waking someone. By 1:00 AM we finally decided to get an axial temperature. Even if it wasn’t accurate we could establish a baseline that would let us know if he were getting better or worse - 103.2! We called the nurse.
A couple of hours, a nurse visit and several cold compresses later we had his temperature down to a mere 100.8. It is hard to know even now what we are dealing with. I suspect pneumonia even though his lungs seemed clear to the nurse. He has survived his last two or three bouts of pneumonia by seeking treatment before even X-rays showed a problem. The questions right now outnumber the answers ten to one. That isn’t unusual for us these days but I can’t honestly say we are used to it. What I do know is that for the last few years when he gets this sick it is a dire situation. Part of my brain is saying, "Here we go." The other part is asking, "Going where?"
I have not offered an update in several weeks now. As my last post stated, we had settled into a routine that redefined normal. It seemed pointless and maybe even a bit self-serving to continue posting updates on a condition that wasn’t changing. Surely we have had good days and bad since then - days without waking up, nights without sleep, days of coming out into his recliner, visiting with company and spouting gibberish as if we all could understand what "exploding pasta" and other such nonsense meant. And, to be frank, I am not of the "twitter" generation. I find sharing the detail of every little experience diminishes those experiences rather than enhancing them. Please excuse the fact that not posting updates was mostly for selfish reasons. As of today that has changed.
Our holidays have passed largely as they would have any other year. Granted, they aren’t over and it now seems that the remainder of the holiday season will not be the same - though it is hard to know what will happen from one minute to the next. But I have an odd feeling of pride that so far we have been able to gather in much the same way as usual and find meaningful ways of including my dad in the experience. On Christmas day he was able to spend quite a bit of time out of his bed, even opening a couple of gifts and having a bit of Christmas dinner in his recliner near the rest of us at the table. 11 weeks ago, as we were preparing to check out of Borgess hospital, my sister said "Who knows? Maybe Roy will pull one more rabbit out of his hat." That seemed utterly impossible - maybe even undesirable since a meaningful recovery was not even being attempted. We brought him home that night and began plans for a funeral. We prepared our hearts for a holiday season without him. But this Christmas we got a rabbit instead.
It was understandable that the day after Christmas he was "wiped out." But he was a bit out of sorts as this new normal has defined them. My mom kept saying, "He hasn’t been like this before." But he has been like this before - when he was in and coming home from the hospital; when he was actively dying. By nightfall he started to show signs of a fever. A cold compress kept him comfortable for the most part and we got some Tylenol in him. That was a bit difficult because even though he was awake he was not completely responsive. When instructed to open his mouth he would clench his teeth instead out of confusion. That made taking his temperature impossible. My mom wanted to call a hospice nurse but it was midnight and we really seemed to be doing OK on our own. No sense, I thought, in waking someone. By 1:00 AM we finally decided to get an axial temperature. Even if it wasn’t accurate we could establish a baseline that would let us know if he were getting better or worse - 103.2! We called the nurse.
A couple of hours, a nurse visit and several cold compresses later we had his temperature down to a mere 100.8. It is hard to know even now what we are dealing with. I suspect pneumonia even though his lungs seemed clear to the nurse. He has survived his last two or three bouts of pneumonia by seeking treatment before even X-rays showed a problem. The questions right now outnumber the answers ten to one. That isn’t unusual for us these days but I can’t honestly say we are used to it. What I do know is that for the last few years when he gets this sick it is a dire situation. Part of my brain is saying, "Here we go." The other part is asking, "Going where?"
The New Normal
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Six months ago I would have slept in late this morning. I would have been recovering from a late night of sitting up and talking with my dad. Hashing over current events. Settling affairs of state. While I’m sure current events don’t hold the same interest they used to the routine of keeping up with them has now reentered his life. But we don’t hash them over. We don’t stay up late at night discussing them.
The last few times we stayed up into the wee hours of the morning it seemed inevitable that he would get sick shortly thereafter. Finally, this past summer when it got to be about 1:30 am I claimed fatigue and called it a night hoping he would as well. It worked and he went to bed when I did and he stayed relatively healthy.
Now we visit in spurts. It doesn’t take long before he is fatigued - which is to say he can’t find the words he’s looking for. Names are impossible. The conversation becomes very labored. He isn’t sleeping quite as much as he was a month ago. I’m going to guess it is something like 14 hours a day now. Could be more. But one night last week, a couple of days after learning about Michael’s death, he stayed up all night watching old movies on TV.
We have to repeat some things often. Sometimes conversations end up where they started. He asks my mom a few times a week now to tell him how he "got here." Those days in the hospital a month ago are little more than a blur for him. I wish we were so lucky. And he has asked me to tell him about Michael’s funeral so many times that I have lost count. But Sharon came for a few hours yesterday and we shared the pictures with him together. I think that made Michael’s death a bit more real. Seeing a picture of his son in his casket had to do that. There he was in his new suit. The one he bought to wear at our father’s funeral. I imagined Michael coming for that knowing how proud my dad would have been that he looked so good - Michael didn’t get dressed up for just anybody. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the suit. The irony was too much. I think perhaps the photos brought some measure of closure for him. He hasn’t asked me about the funeral since.
Today we visited several times. He called for me at one point. Invited me to sit down and visit a while. Said he’d buy me a beer. That’s his kind of humor and I almost dismissed it that way. But Josie asked if he wanted one and he thought a moment - probably for dramatic effect - and said yes. We were a little surprised at first but he was having a pretty good day so we probably shouldn’t have been. It went down well. I don’t think he ever got around to finishing it but it provided an easy lubricant to our conversation - mostly about his military career. I was even able to pry out of him some insights and experiences that hadn’t come up before. One in particular that I had tried a couple of times to get him to talk about without success. When he finally told me it made us both laugh out loud.
So this is the new normal. The confinement doesn’t bother him as much as my mom. But the dependence does. Not that he complains outright. And we have all settled into a routine. There is some comfort in that. Even though it feels like we are letting our guard down it is nice to feel like we can. It is nice to even have a routine that doesn’t include the anticipation of a call at any moment. Normal is good. Just one question. Can someone tell me how we got here?
Six months ago I would have slept in late this morning. I would have been recovering from a late night of sitting up and talking with my dad. Hashing over current events. Settling affairs of state. While I’m sure current events don’t hold the same interest they used to the routine of keeping up with them has now reentered his life. But we don’t hash them over. We don’t stay up late at night discussing them.
The last few times we stayed up into the wee hours of the morning it seemed inevitable that he would get sick shortly thereafter. Finally, this past summer when it got to be about 1:30 am I claimed fatigue and called it a night hoping he would as well. It worked and he went to bed when I did and he stayed relatively healthy.
Now we visit in spurts. It doesn’t take long before he is fatigued - which is to say he can’t find the words he’s looking for. Names are impossible. The conversation becomes very labored. He isn’t sleeping quite as much as he was a month ago. I’m going to guess it is something like 14 hours a day now. Could be more. But one night last week, a couple of days after learning about Michael’s death, he stayed up all night watching old movies on TV.
We have to repeat some things often. Sometimes conversations end up where they started. He asks my mom a few times a week now to tell him how he "got here." Those days in the hospital a month ago are little more than a blur for him. I wish we were so lucky. And he has asked me to tell him about Michael’s funeral so many times that I have lost count. But Sharon came for a few hours yesterday and we shared the pictures with him together. I think that made Michael’s death a bit more real. Seeing a picture of his son in his casket had to do that. There he was in his new suit. The one he bought to wear at our father’s funeral. I imagined Michael coming for that knowing how proud my dad would have been that he looked so good - Michael didn’t get dressed up for just anybody. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the suit. The irony was too much. I think perhaps the photos brought some measure of closure for him. He hasn’t asked me about the funeral since.
Today we visited several times. He called for me at one point. Invited me to sit down and visit a while. Said he’d buy me a beer. That’s his kind of humor and I almost dismissed it that way. But Josie asked if he wanted one and he thought a moment - probably for dramatic effect - and said yes. We were a little surprised at first but he was having a pretty good day so we probably shouldn’t have been. It went down well. I don’t think he ever got around to finishing it but it provided an easy lubricant to our conversation - mostly about his military career. I was even able to pry out of him some insights and experiences that hadn’t come up before. One in particular that I had tried a couple of times to get him to talk about without success. When he finally told me it made us both laugh out loud.
So this is the new normal. The confinement doesn’t bother him as much as my mom. But the dependence does. Not that he complains outright. And we have all settled into a routine. There is some comfort in that. Even though it feels like we are letting our guard down it is nice to feel like we can. It is nice to even have a routine that doesn’t include the anticipation of a call at any moment. Normal is good. Just one question. Can someone tell me how we got here?
A Cruel Twist of Fate
Friday, October 30, 2009
One of the things that will always stand out in my mind about my father is his willingness - his need, actually - to drop everything to go to a funeral for a family member - no matter how distant the relation. It has left my mother shaking her head more than once how he would jump in the car and drive six or seven hours to Kentucky for the funeral of a cousin. It isn't hard to explain if you know him well enough to know how deep his sense of duty runs. But if you know him as well as I do you have to admit that there is more to the story.
My brother died today. Michael was my father's first born and though he has spent the better part of his life many, many miles from us, today is the first day he is truly gone. I was born one week to the day before Mike's 22nd birthday. The years and distance between us kept us from ever being close. But the older we got the more evident it became - to both of us - during our occasional visits that it was only an accident of fate that we weren't closer.
When I was growing up, my oldest brother was more of an idea - an ideal, really - than a presence in my life. A blank canvas that I could paint onto what I wanted. Even as I grew to know him for who he was, I still remember vividly the hero I made him in my mind. In a way, that is the story of his life. Perhaps it is a story common to some degree to the eldest sibling in any family - my father included. His intellect, athleticism, good looks and self-confidence made it that much more natural that we would all dump our hopes, our values into him. It was a burden that stifled him and eventually caused him to strike out on a path that would take and keep him apart from us. He was the prodigal son.
When he returned it was an event. And with each return visit - right up to his last - just eight weeks ago - it was amazing to me - amazing - how he had shed the baggage of his past. Who does that at the age of 62? Don't you just at some point decide "this is my baggage and I'll carry it?" He could have stayed away. He could have harbored bitterness and resentment. Instead he let those things go and let us see the man he really was rather than the one we would have him be. That man may not have lived up to the image I created in my head and heart, but I would have liked to have had more time to get to know him.
When my father was just shy of his 12th birthday his mother died in child birth. His mother remains to this day one of the single, greatest influences on his life. He was not allowed to attend her funeral. At 22 he was in Italy during the war when his younger brother, Denville, died. They had gone through a lot together growing up - especially after their mother’s death. He could not be there for his funeral. When he was in Germany 12 years later he got word that his father had died. Though it was not unexpected there was no way to make it home for his funeral.
The last couple of days he has read the paper and been pretty alert. All-in-all he is as good as he has been in weeks. He remains bedridden but at this rate there may even be a chance that he will soon be able to transfer to a wheelchair with minimal aid. Only time will tell. But despite that he suffered a loss today. A loss that I had presumed - consciously even - that he would be spared at this point. The loss of a child.
When Michael was here in August we all came to see him. My sister, Sharon, brother, David and I all came to my parents' house to visit with him and my dad. We always make it a point to get group photos during these visits and this was no exception. Even then, before my dad had an acute bout of congestive heart failure, it was hard not to think this would be the last time we would all be together. It didn't hang over us like some melancholy cloud of despair or anything like that. But the feeling was palpable just the same.
"Am I going to need to buy a new suit?" Michael asked my sister referring to what seemed to be our next inevitable family gathering. I like to think of myself as a bit irreverent. But I couldn't hold a candle to Mike. My brother died today. And my dad will not be able to go to his funeral.
One of the things that will always stand out in my mind about my father is his willingness - his need, actually - to drop everything to go to a funeral for a family member - no matter how distant the relation. It has left my mother shaking her head more than once how he would jump in the car and drive six or seven hours to Kentucky for the funeral of a cousin. It isn't hard to explain if you know him well enough to know how deep his sense of duty runs. But if you know him as well as I do you have to admit that there is more to the story.
My brother died today. Michael was my father's first born and though he has spent the better part of his life many, many miles from us, today is the first day he is truly gone. I was born one week to the day before Mike's 22nd birthday. The years and distance between us kept us from ever being close. But the older we got the more evident it became - to both of us - during our occasional visits that it was only an accident of fate that we weren't closer.
When I was growing up, my oldest brother was more of an idea - an ideal, really - than a presence in my life. A blank canvas that I could paint onto what I wanted. Even as I grew to know him for who he was, I still remember vividly the hero I made him in my mind. In a way, that is the story of his life. Perhaps it is a story common to some degree to the eldest sibling in any family - my father included. His intellect, athleticism, good looks and self-confidence made it that much more natural that we would all dump our hopes, our values into him. It was a burden that stifled him and eventually caused him to strike out on a path that would take and keep him apart from us. He was the prodigal son.
When he returned it was an event. And with each return visit - right up to his last - just eight weeks ago - it was amazing to me - amazing - how he had shed the baggage of his past. Who does that at the age of 62? Don't you just at some point decide "this is my baggage and I'll carry it?" He could have stayed away. He could have harbored bitterness and resentment. Instead he let those things go and let us see the man he really was rather than the one we would have him be. That man may not have lived up to the image I created in my head and heart, but I would have liked to have had more time to get to know him.
When my father was just shy of his 12th birthday his mother died in child birth. His mother remains to this day one of the single, greatest influences on his life. He was not allowed to attend her funeral. At 22 he was in Italy during the war when his younger brother, Denville, died. They had gone through a lot together growing up - especially after their mother’s death. He could not be there for his funeral. When he was in Germany 12 years later he got word that his father had died. Though it was not unexpected there was no way to make it home for his funeral.
The last couple of days he has read the paper and been pretty alert. All-in-all he is as good as he has been in weeks. He remains bedridden but at this rate there may even be a chance that he will soon be able to transfer to a wheelchair with minimal aid. Only time will tell. But despite that he suffered a loss today. A loss that I had presumed - consciously even - that he would be spared at this point. The loss of a child.
When Michael was here in August we all came to see him. My sister, Sharon, brother, David and I all came to my parents' house to visit with him and my dad. We always make it a point to get group photos during these visits and this was no exception. Even then, before my dad had an acute bout of congestive heart failure, it was hard not to think this would be the last time we would all be together. It didn't hang over us like some melancholy cloud of despair or anything like that. But the feeling was palpable just the same.
"Am I going to need to buy a new suit?" Michael asked my sister referring to what seemed to be our next inevitable family gathering. I like to think of myself as a bit irreverent. But I couldn't hold a candle to Mike. My brother died today. And my dad will not be able to go to his funeral.
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