Allison DuBois: Don't Kiss Them Good-bye

Two days earlier I had spoken with my neighbor Alison, whom I had just met when we moved in. Her father had unexpectedly been diagnosed with an advanced brain disease, and his prognosis wasn’t good. He was a wonderful man and I had been privileged to meet him on one occasion.

I had told her, “I know it’s hard to see any gifts in your dad’s condition but let me point out one. I counsel many people who are devastated because they never got to say good-bye. You have been given an opportunity to hold your dad, to sit with him, and when the time comes to say good-bye to him. Say and do whatever you need to now in order to be okay with his final moments. One thing that I cannot do as a medium is to hold those lost to me. I can somewhat touch them but not hold them. It’s not the same. See the gift.”

Later Alison and I would recognize the significance of our new friendship.

My father’s death came at the end of a fun weekend. On September 20, 2002, I traveled to California for my cousin Vanessa’s wedding. I was happy to be there with my husband, Joe; we needed a break. During the ceremony some unusual disturbances were taking place. I snickered and squeezed Joe’s hand.

I knew that my dad’s sister, my aunt Olivia, who had passed six years earlier, was making her presence known. I’d never doubted she would be there; I’d only wondered how she’d make her presence known. After the wedding we followed my cousin Mark’s fiancée to the reception; she missed our exit and we ended up on a small road trip. It made us a little late, but when we arrived we were ready for a good time.

The timing of our arrival would later seem very important. We walked into the ballroom and I heard a familiar song. That moment will stay in my mind forever. The mariachis were playing “My Way.” First of all, I’ve never heard that song played at a wedding, because it’s hardly about unity. Second, mariachis don’t typically play that song, because it’s in English. I whirled around and I looked at Joe and my cousin Mark.

Oh my gosh! That’s so strange—that’s what I’m going to play someday at Dad’s funeral!

“My Way” is a perfect song for my dad, not only because he was a free spirit but because he had an air of Rat Pack coolness about him. He had been a professional ballroom dancer for decades, and we used to listen to Frank Sinatra together. He wore a big diamond pinky ring, and when I was seventeen I began wearing my own as a way of connecting to my dad. Everything he did, he did with style.

Two years earlier, I had made a prediction. One day after having lunch with my dad, I came home and told my husband that I had a strong feeling my dad was going to die at age sixty-seven from a massive heart attack. Since then I had been on a crusade to prevent it. I shared my prediction with a few friends and family members. My friend Stacey and I had already gone to the mall and picked up a Sinatra CD with “My Way” on it. I told her I’d need it for my dad’s funeral. I was simultaneously planning his funeral and trying to prevent it. My dad promised he’d go have his heart checked out, and he did, several times; the doctors said all was well.

I snapped back to the reception, and as the song ended I felt sick to my stomach.

“Shake it off. Dad is fine,” I said to myself as I prayed it true. I had sent him to every heart institute in our area. He exercised regularly and ate right. He listened to me. Intervention, right?

It was Friday, and I had just talked to Dad the night before. I’d planned to call on Sunday when I got home. He was coming over for lunch the following Saturday. I missed my dad the whole time I was gone. I’d moved to central Phoenix from Gilbert, Arizona, so that we could spend more time together. I was eager to see him more often. I had been in Phoenix for only three weeks, and I was still unpacking.

Sunday morning, we were hanging out with my cousin Mark and my friend Laurie, waiting until we had to catch our flight home in a few hours. The phone rang and Joe answered it. After listening briefly, he looked at me and said, “Allison, your dad died.”

I felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of my body.

“You mean my grandma? Dad couldn’t be gone!”

The look on Joe’s face told me he was. My heart shattered instantly. I could not think straight.

I was so angry with God: “You can’t take my dad! I live with ridicule and doubt from others and I still do what I’m asked to do. I have done everything you’ve asked of me without hesitation, but a condition was that you not take my father!”

I was only thirty years old, with no father. My daughters would have no grandfather; two of them would be too young to remember him clearly. I counsel others on grief, and I could not give myself peace of mind. I was instantly empty. I had nothing left to give.

As I flew home, I watched people go on with their lives. I wanted to say, “Stop! My father has died and everything must stop!”

But it doesn’t work that way. I know that. I was being irrational, but I couldn’t help myself. As I grappled with my pain, I realized that I was Dad’s next of kin and I had a funeral to plan.

Death is funny in that it brings out the best and the worst in people. It casts light on the truth and makes life blindingly clear. The reality was starting to set in. I went to pick up the personal items he’d been wearing, and I slipped his pinky ring onto my finger next to my own pinky ring, where it will always stay. I had no sense of time, of hunger, or of any of life’s normal routines. Everything had all smeared together into an ugly, distorted mess. I told my husband that I didn’t want to sleep because every night that I slept was one more day since Dad’s last breath. I didn’t want Dad to become a distant memory. I didn’t know how to function, and I was frustrated because I couldn’t feel him as I do others who have passed.

At his funeral I saw my cousin Mike, my dad’s namesake, and we embraced. Mike handed me the most amazing picture. It was of my dad and Mike’s dad with their arms around each other at Mike’s wedding twenty years ago. They had the most brilliant smiles on their faces and were obviously having a great time. Mike’s dad had passed away ten years earlier. I was so grateful for the picture. I extended my hand to Mike and placed my dad’s gold watch in his hand. It had been his favorite; “Mike” was engraved on the back, and he wore it every day.

“My dad would want you to have this,” I said.

Mike smiled. “Allison, my dad engraved this watch for your dad. I recognize his work.”

I believe that Mike and I were prompted by our dads, so that each of us would bring a token of their love and hand it off to the child who missed a father. The watch gave my cousin not only love from my dad but a sign from his dad. The picture gave me a sense of happiness I thought I’d never feel again, as well as the gift of a visual of how he looks on the other side. I couldn’t yet reach my dad, but he reached me.

Then I suddenly felt angry. “I am standing at my father’s funeral!”

I looked up at the stained-glass ceiling of the church, and once again I railed at God: “How could you take him like this? Why should I ever listen to you again?”

I heard a soft female voice say, “You were given the gift of two years to say good-bye.”

The voice was right. I had been given two years! Even though I wasn’t with my father at the moment of his passing, I had been saying good-bye every time I saw or spoke with him. I had been saying good-bye with my every word and action for two years, and I knew it. I had known my father’s days were numbered since the day I received his age and cause of passing.

It had been a blessing and a curse at once. I reflected upon my last conversation with Dad. I had told him, “Hold on, Dad, I’ll help you when I get back. Don’t you leave me; I still need you. ”