- In a few weeks, Dad lost two of his closest friends.
- His grief, buried in stories of his earlier life, changed how I think about my friends.
My 93-year-old father learned of the death of two close friends recently. When Dad didn't hear from Bob over Christmas, he called his childhood friend's home in Virginia. Dad learned from Bob's wife that he had died. Soon, Dad also received the news that his fraternity brother Jim had died in Denver.
Dad has always been a social animal and an example of a good friend. He, always the instigator and organizer, had many friends and even more stories.
His friends like being around him
He loved taking his friends to Wrigley Field in Chicago to see his beloved Cubbies. Several times each summer, he would take different groups of three friends and plan the details. He held every office in civic and church clubs, including Lions Club Tail Twister. A highly responsible position, The Tail Twister enforced fines for made-up infractions like wearing the wrong color tie. The punishment: the Tail Twister cut off the offending tie about three inches below the knot.
Dad's friends liked being around him because he treated them respectfully and brought along the fun. And he always had a story about it.
"Tell number 49," I said, assigning a random number to a story about how he and others skipped school to hear Harry Truman's early morning "Whistlestop" speech from a campaign train. And, how, after Truman's 10-minute talk, the boys skipped the day for nefarious escapades I can't reveal, even after 75 years.
I still haven't lost any friends, so I'm learning through him
Now, Dad's grief, buried in his tales, moved me to think more about myself, my friends, and mortality. At 66, I've lost my mother and all my grandparents, but I haven't lost any close friends near my age.
Yet grief and its friend loss are present in my tribe like a stalker. From Parkinson's disease to heart valve problems to cancer and bad corneas, my friends are also in the stalker's grip. My coffee klatches invariably end up as an "organ recital," updating each other on our health concerns.
My husband and I each have chronic health issues. I struggle with lung disease, while my husband is an insulin-dependent diabetic. When we recently celebrated our 39th wedding anniversary, it was the first time I ever wondered if we would have another one.
As I've watched my dad grieve in the last month, I see that this time, it's not about him — it's about me. The death of Dad's nonagenarian friends, whom I knew only through his stories, hit me like the Road Runner dropping an anvil on Wile E. Coyote. When my head stopped ringing, I realized that I feel like I've moved into an era where grief and loss aren't just stalking but have moved in next door.
Like my Dad, I'm a planner and an instigator, always trying to stay in touch. My appreciation of my friends comes from my Dad, who knows how to be a friend. Dad watches all his friends fly, as an old gospel song says, "to worlds unknown." Dad continues to honor his friends in his memories, now beloved stories I'm glad I hear, whether repeated twice or thrice in a conversation.
Even frail and forgetful, Dad is still a teacher. He taught me that loving my friends and telling old stories honors our loved ones in life and makes them immortal in death.