My father died thirteen years ago this day, though it’s more accurate to say he drew his last breath on March 4, 1997. The vibrant, extroverted leader who was my father spent thirty-eight years dying after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis at age twenty-nine.
The course of Dad’s disease was cruel and merciless, swiftly cutting him down in the prime of life and then allowing him to linger for decades, slowly sapping him of strength and then of his ability to think, speak and remember.
For all the tragedy he experienced, and there is no kinder word with which to sugarcoat what he endured, my father’s presence was the delight of my childhood. How can I describe this complex man? Depression stalked his lonely days while we were at school, but he refused to burden my sister, brother and me with it. But if he didn’t hear us come home, we would see him staring at the wall, his face all blank despair, his thumbs twiddling aimlessly.
The minute he saw us, a grin split his face, and he was all joy. He wheeled his chair to the kitchen table and asked us to heat up his coffee, light his pipe, pour ourselves some milk, and grab the cookie jar. He cracked jokes so funny we snorted milk up our noses. Then he turned a blind eye while we watched the after school cartoons Mom declared off limits. He waited until we were absorbed in the show to wheel up behind us, then poke and tickle us mercilessly. When Mom’s car pulled up, the TV went off, the homework came out, and Dad went along with our charade with a wink and a smile.
By the time we all married and moved away, he was mostly bedridden. When I came home to visit, and then when he had moved to the nursing home, I would stand in the doorway of his room a minute. Dad would lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, his face blank and despairing, his thumbs too weak to twiddle.
“Dad,” I would say, “It’s Jo. I’m home.”
In an instant, the despair was gone and joy wreathed his face. His eyes sparkled, even in his last years, when he barely spoke at all. Though we were adults ourselves, he refused to lay upon us the weight of his constant loss.
My father spent thirty-eight years dying until he drew his last breath on March 4, 1997. But in those decades of disease and loss, he did so much more than die. He showed us how to live with dignity, find joy in the midst of sorrow, and love with undying faithfulness and sacrifice.
I miss you, Dad.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997
