He Did It His Way
The setting: 17 May. 1:17 PM. My phone rings. The screen reads Dad, but I’m scared. When I answer, will his voice be on the other side, or will I hear Lynn’s sweet, southern one?
Needless to say, it was not my Dad’s voice. The last time I ever heard his voice, the Saturday prior, he could only speak in a whisper.
There’s so much I want to say, and yet, am at a complete loss for words… torn between wanting to share and keep private, between feelings of sorrow and relief.
It was an early October morning in 2017 when Dad first called me to tell me he was in pain. That this wasn’t the life he wanted to live, that he did live. For 5 years, I heard this. I heard, saw, and felt his decline. And it hurt me. He was progressively in so much pain, that he couldn’t see how it affected me. Or maybe he did, and the pain was so great that nothing else mattered.
I can understand that. I’m no stranger to pain.
5 years is both a long time, and yet no time at all.
Each time I spoke to him, things were continuously going downhill. And it broke my heart. He was suffering physically, but I was suffering mentally. It’s not easy to only hear the negative…. and I understand that, too. How hard it must be for the people in my life when I’m going through a depressive episode. But, in the moment, nothing else matters besides how badly we feel.
He never shied away from honesty, sometimes to a fault. I once told him that just because something needs to be said, doesn’t mean it needs to be heard.
But that’s one of many things he taught me; to live life authentically, and unapologetically. To live life for you, and no one else.
Not everyone agreed with his decisions, myself sometimes included. But he was the epitome of DGAF. The OG.
I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I will never hear his voice live again. I will never be able to ask him any questions, or to tell me that story again. I can’t even ask for his batidos recipe, and can only hope I find my copy when I finally get around to cleaning out the junk drawer which houses our handwritten recipes.
Writing has always made me feel better… so I will continue to do so, especially during this time. Maybe if I can get the thoughts out of my head and down on paper (whether it be digital or actual), I’ll have something tangible, something besides just my memories. Something to aid in his legacy.
Ever since I was little, we had a very special relationship. He was one of an extremely select few that I felt the most ‘me’ around. There were no secrets. We had an open dialogue. The older I got, the more our paths drifted apart, but they never strayed too far.
The last few years were the hardest, because he wasn’t the Dad I grew up with, the Dad I knew and remembered. His disease has ravished his mind and body.
I take solace knowing he is no longer in pain.
As Gary Oldman, and James Marsters, both sang, “I did it my way.” And no matter what part of my dad’s life we talk about, he too, did it his way.
8 Comments
Elena Kaplan
What a beautiful picture of you and your dad. You look like him. My condolences and I will say the Mourner’s Kaddish for you.
Jason Sadler
You are his legacy. A complete unabridged version of his teachings. Thank you for sharing with us. Sorry for your loss but glad he’s no longer suffering. Hopefully the good memories will outlast the bad ones. <3
Shelley
Beautiful. He would be so proud of you. FYI Frank Sinatra sang I did it my way. (smile)
Alison Whou
A very beautiful story and picture! It’s obvious you were close. You will hear his voice again – but it will live in your memories. I can still hear my Mom’s voice but I do understand there will always be an ache to hear it in person. I’m sorry for your loss, because it’s a big one. Your hurt will change over time but never go away. You’ll make your peace with the emptiness, but it will always remain. But I also know you’re one of the strongest people I know! Hugs to you and take it one day at a time.
Eric Gershenoff
Your dad was the best. I have such great memories of him. I always admired how he marched to his own beat. I loved that about him!
Sande Zatt
I am Amanda’s Aunt Sande or as family members call me Aunt Sondra. Amanda’s’ father was my TWIN
Brother. Join us for this memorial celebration as I do believe we will all learn something from this Memorial. Loosing a parent means remembering so many of your memories with one’s self… Memories that need to carry us as our love ones are ohiscally gone. Amanda’s father’s side of the family cherish our Amanda.😘
Sande Zatt
I am Amanda’s Aunt Sande or as family members call me Aunt Sondra. Amanda’s’ father was my TWIN
Brother. Join us for this memorial celebration as I do believe we will all learn something from this Memorial. Loosing a parent means remembering so many of your memories with one’s self… Memories that need to carry us as our love ones gone. Amanda’s father’s side of the family cherish our Amanda.😘
Austin
Wonderfully worded. A truely influential person has finally been released from their pain – even if it’s now all who reads this to bear. Much love to you and your family and you know how to reach me if there’s anything. I, am not as good with words as you are – but he is loved are you.