My Dad passed away this morning.
I alternately miss him like a limb and am so grateful that he’s no longer on this plane- because that means he’s no longer suffering. I also have firsthand knowledge that he’s happy- he’s happy– so it’s slightly easier for me to write about him, celebrate him, and grieve him without the bewildered fist to my heart that’s accompanied these past two years and change. And I’ll attempt to do so without giving an undue amount of fanfare- the kind he never wanted directed at himself. (That said- a few weeks ago, while discussing memorial arrangements, he said he wanted something not entirely unlike an Irish wake, maybe a bit like a Jazz Funeral…unless we had a line on a few good Sicilian mourners. But it’s so hard to tell when Irishmen are kidding.)
A good friend recently reminded me that my Dad didn’t let cancer win. He fought valiantly for almost two and a half years. But then, instead of letting cancer strip him of his dignity and resign him to a hospital bed for his last days, he chose to stop the chemo. He decided to be with his wife, his family, and a legion of unbelievable friends in the home that he cherished, in the rooms that gave his heart peace. There’s no way- in any rule book- that that could be considered defeat.
That doesn’t mean that what we’re suffering can’t be considered a loss. Of course we’ve lost. A great man was taken from us by an unfair, cheating, ever-shifting disease. There’s anger there. There’s so much anger there. There’s devastating sadness, and pain, and an emptiness that can never be filled the right way ever again, not really. But there’s also a strange peace and a spiritual surety that Dave Flynn- in some way or another- will always be around. I’m going to hold onto that belief, especially as my close-knit family reels and clings as we discover the absence of a larger-than-life man. To quote one of our favorite movies, “Life is made up of meetings and partings. That is the way of it. I am sure that we shall never forget him, or this first parting that there was among us.” (The savvy among you will recognize those lines as being from A Christmas Carol. The really savvy will know that it’s from the Muppet’s version.)
It’s easy to drift into hyperbole after the fact, to make someone into the hero that he wasn’t. But I’m no danger of that here. Because he was. Much to the occasional chagrin of our mother, all four Flynn girls idolized our Dad. Despite how fiercely we loved both of our parents, it was no secret that, while Mom was our rock, Dad was our star. He was a craftsman, in every sense of the word. He created. Houses, a restaurant, a family. He wrote songs- beautiful songs- ones that I still sing as lullabies to my children. He built communities, simply by being the “don’t shine a light on me” center of them, a patient and welcoming man, an extended hand from behind the grill.
When we were little, my sisters and I shoved past each other to be visible in the picture window as he left for work each morning. And we knew when he was coming home- he was always greeted with a miniature parade. He must’ve been tired; how could he not have been tired? But he always made time for us. Honest conversations, math help (some of us requiring a bit more in that department than others) and- the prize above all prizes- time on the couch during our favorite shows, where commercials would bring the opportunity for tentative questions and nonjudgmental advice.
Because of the man he was, there’s such regret for the man who was denied the things he deserved. He never got to retire. He never got to travel the world with my Mom. He never got to see his grandkids grow up, nor did he get to meet the ones who’ve yet to be born. But here’s what he did get to do: dance at weddings, fix up houses, and have more of a relationship with his children and sons-in-law than most fathers can ever claim. He made and kept friendships of astounding depth and loyalty. He loved my Mom enough for three lifetimes.
If there is a silver lining to be found here- and believe me, I’ve dug and searched- it’s that none of us will ever be caught unawares by this horrific disease. We’ll scope and scan and lead our lives as healthily as possible. Because that’s what we have to do to honor this wonderful guy-
We have to live wonderful lives.
Dad, our kids will know you. They’ll understand the perfect amount of parmesan cheese to add to a stellar Alfredo sauce, they’ll get why minor chords make such an impact in key changes, and they will always- always– stop to get lemonade from little kids’ stands and to buy silk poppies from veterans at stop lights. We’ll explain how you told the best stories, usually with one emphatic hand up, a subtle shake of your head, and a quietly marveled “tremendous.”
Our kids will take gentle moments to reflect on how great we all actually have it. And, once it’s age-appropriate, they’ll fix an ice-cold vodka tonic and watch a Cape Cod sunset. They’ll know you sent it.
But my Dad already knows this stuff. And he knows that I know it. As my Dad once told me, he always knows. Here’s what else he told me: Buck up. Drive safe. And “I love you, kid.” Doesn’t that pretty much sum it up?
Dad, I believe in the core of my being that you’ll always be with us. So keep an eye out for us as we keep one out for you (and all the signs we know you’ll be sending).
Because if there’s even a chance you’ll be watching, we’ll be standing at the window and waving.
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