Reflections

Diary 1978-1981
Death of Papa
August 1979
Papa
My stepfather died a month ago. It has been a difficult month. Many
memories have flooded my thoughts daily, nightly, constantly, of times
past never to be recalled, never to be experienced again. A terrible
emptiness and longing for things to be as they were a year ago, a feeling
that life will never be quite as good, as full, again. It was so fast that we
didn’t have time to adjust to the thought of his being dead, before it
actually happened. But that is selfishness on our part – such a blessing
for him not to have suffered – yet I still listen for his whistle at the gate
and think, “I better ask Papa about that,” at least a half dozen times each
day. I was not ready for him to go.
Mother’s phone call and my mad dash to the store filled with cold
apprehension in the August heat, my voice screaming soundlessly inside
my head, “No! No! This cannot be!" Each moment is etched forever in
my memory like a movie re-running constantly. He looked like he
was asleep in his chair near the front door of the store watching a golf
tournament on TV. But there was no doubt. The look of death was upon him. My scalp prickled with the sensation of his still being there
– his spirit was very close. My husband felt it too and would not leave him – it was as if we were experiencing our last communication
with him.
Through all the ensuing confusion of ambulance attendants, sheriff, police, Justice of the Peace – we stayed there with him. I placed my
hand on his bald head in my old gesture of affection. As I always did when leaving him sitting there and said, “Bye Papa, see you later.”
He was not yet cold, only clammy, still damp from perspiration. It had been terribly hot that day. They came to take him away and the
spell was broken – he was gone, body and spirit. We turned to leave, locking the door behind us – I saw through the glass his hat lying
there next to his chair. I left it.
Now the ordeal truly began. The ordeal of telling the children, hysterical crying, endless streams of people and telephone calls, my
mother’s stricken exhausted face, the helpless feeling of being tired without having done anything, wondering how we will be able to get
through the next few days graciously and with some degree of dignity.
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