The Same Day, A Year Apart

It was June thirtieth, the first anniversary of the death of my brother. Normally, I visit my parents every day to spend time with my father and help take care of him, but I had another stupid early work meeting to attend. There wasn't time to visit, so I called my mom and said that I would come over the next day instead.

At the stupid work meeting, we started off with a potluck to celebrate the birthdays of those born in April, May and June. That included me. I didn't feel like eating, so I just sat silently, while everyone ate and talked. It was a day of mourning for me.

Four hours into the shift, the house supervisor gave me a note and told me to call my brother. It was urgent. This wasn't good. As soon as my brother answered the phone, I asked if dad died. He answered, "yes."

We discussed what to do about our mother. I said that I would ask to leave work, go get mom and take her home with me. As I walked towards the supervisor, the tears started flowing. From the look on her face, I knew she already knew what had happened. She put her arms around me and I began sobbing uncontrollably.

Word got around fast and soon I was surrounded by my coworkers. They took turns hugging me. My memory is hazy, but I remember being told that I could leave, but not until I stopped shaking and sobbing. It wasn't safe for me to drive like that. I was led into the locker room and my coworkers took turns sitting with me.

Once I regained my composure, they let me leave. I drove to my parent's house and the hospice nurse was with my mother. I expected my mother to be hysterical with grief, but she was calm. The nurse had taken over and was busy calling who needed to be called. The mortuary was on its way to pick up my father.

The nurse asked if I would like to see my father. Immediately, I began shaking my head no and said that I wanted to remember him the way he was. She said it wasn't that bad. I kept shaking my head. My mother then said that she wanted me to see him. Defeated, I started walking down the hallway towards my father's bedroom.

My father died with a smile on his face. It was a Mona Lisa-type smile. As a nurse, I've seen plenty of dead people, but I've never seen any of them smiling. I can only speculate as to what my father experienced that left a smile on his face.

The next day, my mother and I prepared to visit the mortuary. We found my father's Air Force uniform and laid it across a table to look at it. The last time he wore it was to my brother's funeral. Now, he will wear it for all of eternity. We agreed it was a shame to bury such a nice uniform, but we knew what his wishes were. I did, however, remove one of my father's medals. His wings are now my most prized possession. I feel a little guilty and hope that my father wouldn't have minded. When I told Lindsay about what I did, he laughed and said that not only does my father know I took the medal, he wanted me to have it. Isn't Lindsay great in a moral crisis?

In getting the outfit together, my mother and I did argue a little. My mother didn't want to bury him in a shirt. She felt that the uniform was enough. Even though the military only does closed casket funerals and no one would see him, I wanted him to wear a shirt and tie. My mother gave in. Next, we argued about the shoes. Mom wanted to bury him barefoot. Eventually, she agreed to hand over a pair of dress shoes. The next fight was over socks. Mom said that dad had very few pairs of black socks and she didn't see the need to give him socks to wear. I settled that argument by going through the sock drawer and pulling out a pair of socks and taking them. Geeez.

The next thing I got ready was Christofur. That was my father's favorite dog, a much loved Dalmatian. Cris died a few years ago and was cremated. There are rules about dogs being buried in people cemeteries, so I gift wrapped Cris's box and asked the mortician to place the box in the casket. The mortician took the box, shook it, smiled and asked if it was a puppy. I didn't answer. The mortician said it was okay. He was a dog person and understood. He has hidden lots of dog's ashes in caskets for burial in people cemeteries.

Tomorrow, my father and his dog will be buried at Riverside National Cemetery with full military honors.