Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

Life goes on.

My father, Dennis Joseph Woywood, died on Monday, October 30, 2006. He was 72 years old (born Dennis Joseph Wojewodka on March 7, 1934). The sun still rises and sets. Election day still came. I’m still here. Life goes on.

He was given four to six months when diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. We thought he’d be here for Christmas, and maybe his birthday in early March. He made it four weeks, to his 51st wedding anniversary (and two days). Christmas will still come. March will still come. Life goes on.

When I found out he had cancer, I felt guilty about going ahead with the plans for my Halloween party. Life goes on.

Boss has been very generous with my leave time. Plus, it turns out that a visit to a potential account can be adjusted around a familial commitment. I will be with my mother in Albuquerque, just a two hour drive from the account, so I am conveniently close (in western, wide-open spaces terms). Most of November, I’ll be with her instead of at the office. Still, work goes on.

I haven’t cried much, and I don’t think my mom has at all. I think she is distracting herself with "busy work" so she won’t think about it. We’re coping as we know how. Does this make us bad people?

They put a flag on my dad’s casket because he served in the army for two years (in Germany, not Korea) in the early 1950's. I thought only military personnel killed in action were honored with those flags. Now we have a large flag that we don’t have a use for, but I’d feel guilty about giving it away.

He will be cremated, and we’ll take his "cremains" to my mother’s family’s cemetery in Sioux City, Iowa. My mom selected a nice, pewter urn, which will be engraved with his name and dates of birth and death. (She wants one for herself, too.) I guess that will look nicer around the house until we can take him there. My maternal grandfather’s ashes were placed in what looked like a Lenell’s cookie tin, and we kept him in the closet until he was buried. I don’t know yet when we’ll do it, nor if we’ll drive or fly. I can imagine the scene in the airport, at the X-ray station. "What do you mean ‘it’ has to go with the checked luggage? I’m not putting him in the hold; that’s my father!"

My dad was raised Roman Catholic, but he "gave it up" while in the army. All we had for him was a viewing, no religious ceremonies. His elder sister-in-law’s family wants to have a graveside service when we bury him, so I guess we’ll do that. They’re from Illinois and were a mite upset that he’d be buried with my mom’s family and not his. He also has siblings in Michigan and Florida. None of them could make it to Albuquerque, so we’ll see if they want to or can make it to Iowa.

There was a nice mix of his former employees, current co-volunteers, and neighbors. Plus, a neighbor had a wake of sorts at her house afterwards. One of my dad’s former employees said, "He was the best boss I ever had." I nearly lost it when I heard that. Even Boss and his wife and a coworker and her husband drove all the way from Las Cruces to Albuquerque to support me and to pay their respects. I did lose it then, when I saw them at the funeral home. The friend who accompanied me had a poor upbringing, with no male role models. He told me that my dad restored his faith in fatherhood. I lost it then, too.

The big one came at the end of the viewing, when I touched my father’s hand, told him I loved him, and said goodbye. I could barely croak the words. (I’m tearing up even typing this.) One of my brothers was next to me, probably intending to do the same, and he couldn’t manage it. When he heard me, he broke down completely, clutched me in a bear hug for over a minute (and this is something, for two guys who don’t hug), and cried harder than I did.

There is not a day that goes by that I haven’t thought about him. I always will. I’m thinking of posting his obituary and the saying from his memorial card on my blog. It seems a bit maudlin, though. Plus, an ephemeral tribute in cyberspace won’t begin to share with the world how truly special he was. Still, I’ll use that as a start to honor him. I know that some of you have met him, and I hope you remember him with at least a fraction of the love, pride, and respect I had for him. How can one distill a great man’s life into a column-inch or two? I learned in a high school English class that writing short is harder than writing long. His obituary was the hardest thing I ever wrote.

I’m riding on the edge of my "I won’t discuss religion" rule, but I have to say this. I firmly believe in souls. My father wasn’t in that casket; a body was. There is no worldly understanding of how cells and tissues and organs can be a person, not just a Homo sapiens sapiens. What makes someone work and love and laugh and cry and hug? Science doesn’t have an answer. Actually, I hope no one ever finds out; people won’t be special any more. I don’t know where his soul went. His body will be burned and buried, but his essence, what made him "Daddy", must be out there somewhere.

I think I want to be cremated, too, but it seems kind of pointless to bury me somewhere and not have anyone to visit. All I’d be is a stone in the ground with no one else left to remember me. I’m toying with the idea of scattering my cremains at N.M.S.U. (where I went to school and where I work), on Santa Catalina Island (where I had my favorite internship), and in Cherry Hill, N.J. (where I was born and raised). I need to start a will. It’s obvious that one of my brothers will get my comic book collection, but now I also have real estate. I’m not a kid any more.

My mom had me sit at my father’s place at the dining room table. My friend was told to sit in his La-Z-Boy. We both felt uncomfortable doing so. Life goes on.

My dad’s death pushed me into the final step of adulthood. I don’t want to grow up. Life goes on.