“We’ll be there in another week, Dad. We’ll have fresh fish every day – promise!”

Oh, boy – can’t wait!

Sadly, I wasn’t able to keep that promise. Gary and my long-awaited post-vaccine visit with Dad came to a tragic end. A misstep, surgery from a resulting broken hip, and a stroke ended in his death on April 13.

Rest in peace, my darling Dad.

Remembering Mom’s explanation of “holy laughter,” we’ll share some of the moments that made us smile – and even laugh – over the past three weeks.

Dad tripped on a curb on March 24, and was transported to the hospital for hip surgery. We were warned that a nearly-91-year-old would take some time to fully pull out of the anesthesia, no matter how good a shape he was in before the fall.

Indeed, when I reached him by phone a few days later, he had some wild stories to share. One featured a group of British visitors moving into the family room, with Mom there – in statue form – as protector of the home.

And then he mentioned he was currently at the local Stop & Shop.

Remembering that with dementia patients, it’s best to go along with the story … I reminded myself that this wasn’t a case of dementia but post-surgery confusion. So I gave it to him straight:

“Dad, is it possible you had some incredibly vivid dreams?”

Oh, son of a bitch! Thank you for telling me that; of course it was a dream!

Dad wasn’t much of a cusser (once Mom broke him of the habit), so I knew we were more than halfway home, but not completely there.

This was fully confirmed as he ended our call with …

Stay loose!

The next day he described the two hospital staffers who had helped him use a walker and settle in a chair as “two astute gentlemen.” That’s our dad.

Meanwhile, Dad missed his appointment with the barber. Lyn, his caregiver who’d also helped in Mom’s final years, had called to cancel, but apparently the message hadn’t been relayed. So the barber called his friend Joe, who just happens to be Mom’s cousin.

Joe was on the case.

He drove by Dad’s house, but didn’t see anyone. Next he called Mom’s sister, Bunny, to ask if Dad was okay. Joe was ready to call the police for a wellness check. My cousin Beth had answered the phone and asked Joe to hold off for 10 minutes. She and I had texted, so she knew Dad was in the hospital, but wanted to check that we were okay with her talking about the situation. After getting the thumbs up, she called Joe back.

But he’d already called the police.

Well. The local police knew Lyn was Dad’s helper, so they went directly to her house – and probably scared the poor woman half to death! She explained the situation and sent them on their way.

Um, wasn’t there a Mayberry episode with that story line?

“How’s the hospital food, Dad?”

Good food. Poorly prepared.

Yup, that’s my Dad.

A week and two days later, Dad was released. He was delighted to be able to go home that Friday to further recuperate and receive physical therapy.

Oldest brother Harry jubilantly texted the siblings with the news of Dad’s first words when he arrived at home, tired but quite happy:

The eagle has landed!

A few hours later, I was on a call with Harry. Suddenly he said he had to get off the phone, as something wasn’t right with Dad.

It was a stroke. But not a mini stroke, as we’d hoped.

Dr. Donna, who’d cared for our parents for 25 years, came and stayed the night. (Again, Mayberry.)

Hospice came the next day. Gary and I arrived on Monday. There were precious moments of lucidity, but it was obvious Dad’s remaining time on earth was short.

And still … we laughed.

Nellie, a warm and wonderful home-health aide who’d helped out with Mom several years earlier, told me a story.

“I used to help your mother into bed at night. She’d always roll over to your father’s side of the bed. ‘None of that romantic sleeping,’ I’d say. ‘Mr. Hal needs his rest!'” And then they’d laugh together. They’d laugh themselves silly.

On Mom’s birthday, April 6, Harry decided to regale Dad with a favorite song by singing “Sh-Boom” (Life Could Be A Dream). Before long, Dad comically reached back and pulled a pillow over his head. A bit later, Harry even gave Dad permission to call him a detested nickname from childhood: Hasselpuss. Dad’s face lit up as he repeated: Hasselpuss.

Dad laughed out loud when Harry quoted a favorite/not-favorite command from our childhood. As younger brother Bill vacuumed the bedroom before the hospital bed was brought in, Harry said: “Dad, this is so the place doesn’t look like a shit house!” Dad liked a clean house.

A few days later, as Harry helped Dad with some leg-stretching exercises, my brother suggested Dad would soon be ready to join the Ministry of Silly Walks. Dad’s memory (and hearing) was still solid. He grinned.

Gary constantly worried about Nellie, since she was on duty round the clock to administer medication every four hours. He kept watch over Dad each evening until 2am so that she could catch a few naps. Never at a loss for words, Gary held Dad’s hand and told him stories. Several stories. Long stories. At some point, he told Dad he’d let him get some sleep and would save more stories for the next day.

Dad made the sign of the cross.

To be fair, Gary says Dad made another sign of the cross five or so minutes later. He was saying his prayers. But Gary can’t help but think one of those prayers was in gratitude for blessed silence.

One morning, Harry and I were in with Dad. I assured him Mom’s poetry would be preserved and cared for by the next generation. Dad had spent much of the first year after Mom’s passing organizing all of her writings into binders.

Harry told Dad, “I found the binders and they’re safe. All five of them.”

Seven.

Gosh, I thought Dad had been asleep! We quickly located the full set of binders with Mom’s poems. All seven of them.

As Dad’s ability to swallow improved slightly, Nellie spooned ice cream into his mouth. He smacked his lips and grinned at her.

Middle-brother Dave provided a list of favorite music to play as Dad rested. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony No. 6 and Les Adieux Sonata, Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols, and – and old favorite – Richard Dyer-Bennet folk songs. Dad used to tell of actually wearing out that record album; his favorite song on it was The Golden Vanity.

Dad’s reaction to the music was amazing. Sometimes he’d lift his arms in the air and move them, as if conducting. He’d pat my hand in time to the music. He even hummed along once. All with closed eyes.

Other time, his eyes were open and focused on something – or someone – only he could see. Then:

Joan! Joan!

He reached out his arms and called to Mom as we wiped away tears.

Once, Dad asked Harry where Mom was. His answer was sweetly poetic: “I told him she was in the forsythia blossoms and the bluebirds and the prickly green holly leaves. I told him she was in Harry, David, Paula, and Bill.”

On April 13, The Communion Lady came over to pray.

Her name is Diane, but Dad always referred to her in our evening calls as “The Communion Lady,” since she stopped by weekly to bring him communion.

“Dad. I know her name.”

Didn’t matter. She was The Communion Lady.

Diane called us to gather around Dad’s bed. She read three prayers for the dying.

One of them was a story. It started out: “There once was a Pope named …”

Oh, so we’re reciting limericks now, are we?!

I didn’t dare glance up to see if anyone else had the same thought. (Turns out, Harry did.)

As I gently caressed Dad’s head, and Harry his shoulder, I noticed an increase in our father’s breathing. And his head grew warmer. And as the final prayer concluded, Dad was gone.

That lovely, kind, and giving man was at last released to be with his Joanie in paradise.

Just like in that silly Sh-Boom song he loved to sing:

Life could be a dream
Sh-boom, if I could take you to a paradise up above
If you will tell me I’m the only one that you love
Life could be a dream, sweetheart, hello, hello again
Sh-boom and hopin’ we’ll meet again

Life could be a dream
If only all my precious plans would come true
If you would let me spend my whole life loving you
Life could be a dream, sweetheart

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