"Because he was, we are."
That’s what my brother, who’s a psychologist, texted on the
morning last week when my father passed away. I rolled my eyes when I read it. Too flowery,
I thought, not at all what Dad was about. (His instructions: “No funeral. Cremate
me and put my ashes in a coffee can.” He didn’t like a lot of fuss.) But, now,
I’m thinking it works, and I like it.
Because Dad meant the world to his world – his family and
friends. The texts and emails and phone calls haven’t stopped since people
heard he was ill. Another brother, a paramedic, was the rock that kept him
comfortable and medicated during the week he faded away. But that brother also had the job of fielding
all the texts and emails and phone calls, a job he said was ten times more
demanding than caring for a dying father.
His passing is upsetting mostly because he seemed
unstoppable. He raised one family – my
brothers, my sister and I – then remarried after Mom died and, at age 65, helped
out an entirely new family, serving as the sounding board for his wife, her
sons and daughter and her granddaughters.
So, no, we’re not putting his ashes in a coffee can. They’ll be in a nice urn and they’ll make
appearances at memorial services held by each of his families.
And, yes, because he was, we are. He gave his children actual life; but all the
members of his extended family became, to some extent, the people they are
because they were influenced by his approach to life: sure and steady.
