My Last Farewell with my Dad

According to usembassy.gov, “The United States is one of the few countries in the world that has an official day on which fathers are honored by their children. On the third Sunday in June, fathers all across the United States are given presents, treated to dinner or otherwise made to feel special.”

Fittingly, June 17^th will be a special day – we get to celebrate (and if possible, “spoil”) our fathers. For me and my brother, however, we will probably do what we have done for the past sixteen years – amid good-hearted laughter and reverence, celebrate our Dad in our own spiritual way.

In my latest pop-psych book, Mom and Dad’s Pearls of Wisdom... You Gotta Love 'Em, I share with the reader my last farewells with both of my now-deceased parents. If you go to the book’s website, you can read 10 Sample Chapters of the book. Nonetheless, in honor of my Dad, William G. Emener (1920-1990), I herewith want to share that “Last Farewell” with my Dad with you.

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My Dad—May 1990

On a Friday morning, just before the sun peeked over the horizon, the phone rang. As soon as I heard my brother’s voice, I knew. “The hospital just called,” George choked. “He died in his sleep.”

A few hours later, I sank down in my seat on the 747 bound to Newark from Tampa. First, I thought about the impending funeral and everything associated with it, such as how I wanted to be the rock for my mom, brother, and rest of the family. My thoughts soon floated, however, to the last time I had seen my dad.

Four months prior to that day in May, I flew up to New Jersey to spend a long weekend with my parents. Knowing that my father had been in bad health and was getting worse, phone calls and visits had become more frequent. From the moment I arrived that Thursday evening until I left that Sunday afternoon, I spent as much time as I could talking with my father. As everyone was well aware, Dad summarily refused to see a doctor or even discuss his medical problems. He was the poster-child for a generation that didn’t believe in doctors.

Shortly after lunch on Sunday, my suitcase was placed in Mom’s car, where she and my brother sat, warming up the engine. I deliberately lagged behind to have a moment alone with my dad.

As I stood looking down at my father sitting in “his” chair, I could tell that he didn’t want to get up. His back and legs must be hurting him again, I thought. I bent down to give him a hug, but he quickly took my hand instead and held me at bay. Finally, I just looked deep into his eyes and said, “I love you, Dad.”

After briefly yet lovingly peering back at me with his tired, sunken eyes, Dad glanced out the window and said, “You know that damned snow’s still coming down. You’d better get going before it gets any worse.”

With a sheepish “Okay, Pop,” I backed through the living room door, closed it, and got in the car next to my brother. Mom was in the back. I then looked up and saw my father standing at the window, waving delicately to me.

Just as my brother was about to put the car in gear, I shouted, “Hold it!” and got out of the car. I vaulted up the porch steps, zipped through the door, and stood there, four feet away from my father.

“What’d ya’ forget?” he asked.

Ignoring his question, I looked at my father’s feeble body, skinnier than I had ever seen it, and said, “I want a hug, Dad.”

He stood silently, half hunched over, probably hoping I was joking.

“I’m serious, Pop. I want a hug.”

“You’re gonna miss your plane!”

“Dad, I know you’ve always loved me. But I don’t remember you ever giving me a hug. I want one. Now.”

“If you miss that plane…”

“I’m not leaving until you give me a hug.”

He knew I was serious. He inched toward me, and when he looked up at me, I could tell he didn’t know where to put his arms around my six-foot-two frame. Trying to be helpful, I put my arms around his shoulders. As uncomfortable as I knew it was for him, he finally gave in and put his arms around my waist. When I again murmured, “I love you, Dad,” I could feel his gentle hug in return.

I backed away slowly, and when I got to the door, my dad looked at me through welling eyes. “Me too,” he said.

As I closed the car door and put on my seatbelt, my brother asked, “Forget something?”

“Nope,” I said. “Not this time.”

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Question: Up to now, or what was, your “most memorable moment” with your Dad?

Bill