IN HONOR OF MY DAD's BIRTHDAY TODAY. HE WOULD BE 99 YEARS OLD! #ForeverMissed


I was forty years old when Dad died of esophageal cancer three months after being diagnosed on December 26th,1995. As a family, we were devastated with the biopsy results.

His cancer was the first profound illness in our family, and his death three months later at seventy-eight years young was the first in our immediate family.
As I thought of my father over coffee this morning, on the twentieth anniversary of his death, I retrieved the binder containing his funeral service mementos.

As I read the eulogy I wrote for Dad's service, I was saddened I didn't write with more depth and heart about the man who was my father.

With the benefit of time, healing and in reflection of today's anniversary, I would have written so much more.
First, the early history.

Robert Llewelyn Lewis was born on December 2nd, 1917 in South Portland, Maine. The first and only child for Alice and Llewellyn Lewis for seventeen years. Dad weighed a whopping twelve pounds at birth. His mother lost her vision for six months following delivery. Dad attended the Lincoln Academy in Damariscotta, Maine where he excelled as a student, and athletically as a track and basketball star. His high school running shoes hang from a wall in my writing den all these years later.

My father became a big brother at the age of seventeen, shortly before enlisting in the Navy and being assigned to the west coast for duty.
Dad's father, Llewellyn, was diagnosed with cancer a few months later. The letters between my dad and his father during my grandfather's illness were as touching as any I've read in a book, or witnessed on the big screen.

Dad met Mom aboard a train somewhere along the east coast. Mom was traveling with her sister, ten years her senior. Dad would tell us years later his icebreaker directed at our Aunt Fran, "My what a beautiful daughter you have!" did not score him points as a potential brother-in-law.

My future parents struck up a conversation, and by the time their destination was reached, Dad asked for a phone number and a date. He was denied both, as Mom was engaged to an Australian Merchant Marine--a friend and shipmate of her older brother's. Mom's engagement status coupled with Dad's sister slight should have been the end of their story, and I could be writing from Australia about an entirely different father possessing a much cooler accent. It was not to be. Lucky for me.

Dad returned to his ship in Northern California shortly after that serendipitous train ride, with every detail of their conversation filed into his memory bank.
Dad was eventually deployed to the Pacific theater combat in WWII. His ship was hit by a torpedo a few months later. Several men were killed in the explosion. My father suffered a broken back.  Memories of the beautiful woman he met aboard a train thousands of miles away consumed his thoughts as he awaited rescue with injuries earning a Purple Heart.

Following his return stateside, hospitalization and recovery, Dad headed for the east coast to spend medical leave in New England, to mend his broken back and spend time with his dying father.  He also possessed a determined commitment to do his best at winning the heart of my future mother, Rita Helen Harrington.

Phase one of the plan was executed. One crisp morning, Dad arrived at 'MA Bell' - the phone company Rita mentioned she worked as an operator. Thank Heaven for monopolies.

Handsome in uniform and assisted by a cane and a limp, he bent the ear of a sympathetic supervisor who promised to give his phone number to Ms. Harrington on her first break.  Upon hearing his story relayed by the supervisor, Mom felt sad for the injured sailor and gave him a call.

They arranged to meet at a park and within two weeks, Mom broke ties with the Aussie. Phase Two ensued weeks later when Dad proposed to Mom near her family home at the Watertown duck pond in November of 1944, before returning to active duty on the West coast.

Six months and many letter exchanges later, Rita Harrington boarded a train with sisters Fran and Grace in tow, and headed westward for their wedding at the Schumacher Naval Base in Northern California. Mom and Dad married on May 20, 1945.  They enjoyed a short honeymoon before Dad was re-deployed and Mom returned to Massachusetts by rail.

Trains were definitely a recurring theme in their love story.
Now from a daughter's perspective. What I should have shared in my eulogy for my father two decades ago.

Dad was not demonstrative in the early years, and honestly as a young child I remember being somewhat afraid of him. I was definitely a mama's girl.

I should have written about a Protestant man promising to send his children to Catholic school with tuition fees challenging for a single earner family. A promise fulfilled to his wife, and the church she loved.

I should have written about a man who became the non-Catholic scoutmaster for that same parish for sixteen years. A volunteer position that came with a myriad of headaches-- many involving parents who had issue with a non-Catholic in the position. Dad weathered the storms, and was an amazing leader, helping to shape the lives of many young men. He received the highest honor feted by the organization for his efforts following a sixteen-year commitment as Scoutmaster of Troop 369.

Our parish priest, Fr. John O'Malley Sharpe, tried to convert Dad to the faith for years. Dad wasn't comfortable with certain aspects of the religion--confession a big one. Dad didn't understand the need for the middle man.

I should have written about the father who after hitting a cat that darted in front of his car, walked door to door in the pouring rain trying to find it's family to apologize, as three of his young children sat in the backseat and cried for a cat we didn't know.  Our cat had met the same fate, and Dad knew how devastating it was for my sister to find Stray's lifeless body lying in the street in front of our house.

I should have written about the dad who talked my mom into allowing me to raise baby birds that fell from their nests in my bedroom. I had a pretty good survival rate, too.

I should have written about a dad who taught me compassion when he would call my uncle Jim Regan, dying of cancer in Watertown, Massachusetts with the greeting, "Hey Shithead, how are you doing?"

This from a man I never heard use a foul word. Long distance phone calls were expensive in the 1960's.  As a ten year old, I thought it horrible he used that moniker for someone so sick. As an adult, I understood the shock of humor used to pump up a terminal loved one's spirits. Shit is one of my favorite words, all these years later.

I should have written about the father who showed such tenderness during my illnesses, eventual hospitalization and surgery at St. Joe's as a child, coming to visit every evening after a long day at work for the week I was admitted.  I observed his tender kindness and engaging demeanor to a young Native American girl assigned to the bed next to me. She suffered from leukemia, and rarely had visitors due to distance of her family's home on the reservation to the hospital. Dad's expression of time and kindness was a lesson that resonated with me as a child in that two-bed hospital room, and throughout my life.

I should have written about the father who allowed his two youngest children to go tubing with friends down the Verde River while picnic'ing with their family one holiday weekend.  I was 10, my brother 8, with three friends the same ages.

The plan was to meet our parents at the Salt River bridge at 3:00 p.m., following a few hours bobbing along the current and minor rapids of the river. Our 'No Show' status at the designated time, then a deflated inner tube floating by stirred worry and the undeniable fear of drownings weighed heavily on both families.

Dad put his scouting orientation skills to work searching for us throughout the long night along with family friend and father of two of the missing, Pete LaBran; the Sheriff's posse, aircraft from Luke AFB, and many nameless volunteers comprised our search party.  We were lost in the desert during high rattlesnake season. "Uncle Pete" an FBI agent found us early the next morning.

I will never forget Dad's strength and relief in that moment of embrace before we were whisked away in sheriff's cruisers to be reunited with our mothers, still standing vigil on the bridge where we had planned to meet them the day before.  My dad's "Stick together no matter what" lectures had served the five of us well, which is why we exited the river together when one inner tube deflated.

I should have written about the father who met with a high school principal to let him know how devastating it was for his awkwardly shy daughter to be left out of the yearbook as a freshman, following a difficult school year adjusting from a small parochial school to an overpopulated public high school and double sessions.  He suggested a double-check editing system to eliminate it ever happening to another child in the future, then returned home and pasted my 2x3" school photo on the page it belonged; telling me the time would come when I would care less about not being included.  Advice that served me well through my life when instances of deliberate non-inclusion found me.

I should have written about the father who discovered me reading a book called "The Summer of '42" at about the same age, replacing it with a less racy read --Louis L'Amour westerns. He loved those damn novels. The same fate applied when he confiscated my Marvin Gaye "Let's Get It On" 8- track tape and swapped it out for a Mel Tellis Coca-Cola Cowboy.

I should have written about the father who refused to let me go on a date at age seventeen with a boy who pulled up and honked from the driveway, rather than collecting me at the front door.

Or the father I witnessed cry for the first time when he returned home from visiting his hospitalized mother a few years after bringing her to live with us from Maine, a few years earlier following the death of her second husband.  He stopped by her hospital room to surprise her with her favorite ice cream, only to pull back the privacy curtain and find her still and at peace.

I should have written about the father who years later laughed when I finally fessed up to blowing out both side mirrors on his truck. I was trolling through a "crush's" neighborhood during a repaving project when flashing road beacons caught the extended camper mirrors. First the left, then the right when I doubled back from my boy-crush drive-by.  Months later, I would add a vee to the tailgate of the same truck while loading hay from the top of the stack and lost control of a bale. It tumbled off balance, smashing the tailgate right smack on its weakest point.

I should have written about the father who managed to get the biggest kick out of my stories. Always. He would grin with his enormous smile, letting me know I had nailed it.

I should have written about the father, who while working on a wood project in the garage was approached by my boyfriend of a year, asking for his blessing to marry me.  Dad's hands began shaking so badly, my future husband felt a need to assist with the clamp.  Dad knew life was changing quickly. Four months later, the man who loved me first walked me down the aisle to the man who would love me last.

I should have written about my father who called the hospital Labor and Delivery years later to inquire if I was in labor when he was unable to reach me on the home phone. The year was 1984 and pre-cell phone era. Our second child arrived two weeks late, following a barrage of "Has my daughter, Mary Wakeford been admitted?" inquiries from my dad. The nurses knew me before I knew them.

Dad was as excited about his first grandchild as he was his last, and my parents were always the first to arrive at the hospital to welcome their newest lifeblood, and check on the welfare of their own once baby girl.

I should have written about the father who tried to convince me unsuccessfully via a phone call from Boston in my 8+ month pregnancy with our fourth child, not to attend a cousin's wedding. It was a futile effort on his part, once I received the okay from my doctor with my medical records in hand-- just in case.

I remember his embrace when my very pregnant self arrived, intact, at my aunt's Watertown home's near midnight following an eight hour flight when he ran to embrace me and my swollen kankles on her wrap-around porch. I could feel the worry drain from his being in that hug, only to be replaced with love and  worry once again as he drove his stubborn, independent and very pregnant daughter to Logan Airport in the early morning a few days later for the return flight to Phoenix.  

My full-term and very stealth baby girl was born three weeks later, nearly matching his own birth weight at a hefty 10#7oz. I did not go blind.

My daughter and my father shared an adorable bond. She would call him Bob, and he would retort in an exaggeratedly miffed voice, "I'm Grampie to you!" She would insist on the Bob, never wavering. He would smile with pride at his sassy, independent little buddy.

I should have written about the father I accompanied to the first meeting with the oncologist praying for hope, but hit with despair at the term inoperable tumor. Dad took the news stoically with a curiosity about treatment options that might gain him time, while Mom and I just tried to keep it together.
Following the appointment, Dad asked me to drive them to Heddy's House of Wigs before our lunch date at the ChrisTown Picadilly, one of his favorite haunts.  Much to our astonishment, Dad had ordered a wig in anticipation of losing his beautiful head of white hair to chemo. It was the most hideous wig I have ever seen. He looked like a geriatric Elvis impersonator. Dad never wore it. He never lost his hair, either.

I should have written about the father who for most of my adult life told me no one made bread pudding as delicious as his Aunt Bud's.  After scouring a dozen cookbooks for the best possible recipe, I baked a bread pudding and presented it to my sick father with a special fruit sauce, hoping it would bring him comfort. I wasn't prepared for Dad telling me it was the best bread pudding he had ever tasted in his entire life.  I cried for my dad and for my bread pudding. Uncontrollably. He smiled with wet eyes and told me it was going to be okay.

I should have written about my father, who in the weeks leading up to his last day, refused pain medication, even hesitant at taking a Tylenol PM at my insistence so Mom could get some sleep.

I should have written about my father, who repeatedly preferred his unshaven face over my offer to shave him in bed or to be wheeled to the back patio to enjoy the beautiful April Spring and Mom's blooming iris garden, with his beloved sidekick, Teddy the Shih Tzu. Or of the reverence the little dog Dad ferried to Phoenix from Boston when I placed him on the bed with my Dad's still body. Teddy laid quietly and stared at his master respectfully and solemnly, seemingly understanding the permanence of his death.

I should have written about my father, who on the morning of the day he sensed would be his last, called me to his bedside and asked me to shave him. It was at that moment I knew he would be dead by morning. And he knew I knew. I play back that scene when I think of my dad, and of the gift he gave me in that moment. As he held me around my waist, I shaved him and cried. Every once in a while he would say "Easy there" when I got a little too close with the razor because of my sight being compromised by tear-filled eyes. I would laugh while crying harder. I am an ugly crier.  It was a horrendous yet beautiful moment.

I returned home late that night and at some point dreamed I was enveloped in the most intense sense of a "love hug" that completely encircled me.  To this day, I can't explain it, and have yet to again experience it.  I woke at 2:30 a.m. to my ringing phone, I knew Dad was gone before I answered.  As Mom described it, he was unable to get comfortable and as she tried to adjust his body in their bed, he turned to her, gave her the most beautiful smile, and told her he loved her.  Then the heart that beat so quickly upon seeing her beautiful face fifty-one years earlier on an east coast train, stopped beating.

This is what I should have written about in my dad's eulogy nineteen years ago.

I know he knows.