“Our dead are never 
dead to us until we have 
forgotten them.”
George Eliot

At about this time on this date fifteen years ago, I found myself driving, quite unexpectedly, to San Francisco to say goodbye to my Dad. He had fallen down the steps of our family home and had been taken by ambulance to the trauma center at San Francisco General Hospital. I didn’t know for sure what condition he was in, but I had no choice but to prepare myself for his death. 

When I arrived at S.F. General, Dad was on life support. The outcome was not in question. Mom just wanted to be certain that my siblings and I had the opportunity to get to the hospital. Around 11:00 p.m., the attending physician withdrew the life support.

Like so many other significant events in my life, this is one I will never forget. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s already been fifteen years, but life does go on. 

Dad’s death rocked me to my core. The effect it had on me was much different than I would have expected. I had never before experienced depression. During the week between Dad’s death and his funeral service, I was numb. I went through the motions without really giving much thought to the reality of the situation. Along with my Mom and siblings, we just did what we had to do. It was in the days, weeks, and months after the funeral that I struggled to come to terms with Dad’s passing.

I continually looked for opportunities to get away, usually to the area along West Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz. That was my sacred spot. I did a lot of reading on coping with grief. I did a lot of thinking about what life would be like without him. And I did a lot of crying. It helped.

Today, perhaps for the first time since 2008, I truly enjoyed this day — July 31st. I wasn’t weighed down with thoughts of losing my Dad. Rather, Kathy and I enjoyed a delightful drive from San José to South Lake Tahoe. I was aware, of course, of the date, but I savored a tremendous sense of peace throughout the day. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Mom is now with him.

One strange thought, however, did cross my mind today. When one’s parents are still alive, even just one of them, it seems as though there is a buffer between us and death. With Mom’s passing last August, that buffer is gone. I’m not worried about it, but I’m aware of it. And yes, it does make a difference in how I want to live out the time I have remaining in my life.