How to Say Goodbye

If you know me, you know that one of my favorite phrases is, “the teacher teaches what the teacher most needs to learn.” This simple bit of Chinese wisdom helped to guide my teaching career and my life.

The truth of the matter is, I am horrible at saying goodbye. I am an emotional creature and forge deep connections with people. Whether it is with a small gathering of friends, leaving Madison for the weekend, visiting my son in South Carolina or when my daughter gets on a plane, I have learned to make hugs last a year, or longer.

Nothing could prepare me for the loss of a parent.

I realize that I am very fortunate that my father had a wonderful life and lived to 85. How special that I had a chance to hold his hand for hours, alone in the dark, and tell him everything that I needed to tell him. I also had a chance to listen to him breathe, and count his breaths. 6,120 when I sat with him on Friday afternoon.

If you know me, you know that I count things, especially when I am stressed and anxious. For me, numbers are calm and order. Driving through a construction zone I might count barrels; I might count geese in the sky. My love of numbers and wordplay came from Dad. When I got the license plate for my car four years ago, I noticed that it has 607 on it, a prime number. My siblings all share this playfulness with words and numbers. I recalled so many memories of his life and our lives together. I wonder about the times he may have held my hand or listened to me breathe when I was an infant. Although, I was the younger middle child so perhaps the novelty had worn off by then! Joking aside, it had me thinking of the circle of life. Life is rather linear as we are all on a path but yet we call it the circle of life. More math in my head as I contemplated circles. I began to recite pi to fifty places...for comfort.

There is no question that Dad had a wonderful life. He was a model of lifelong learning and he lived life to the fullest. He was interested in sustainable living in the 1970s and experimented with solar power. He bought a sailboat and

learned to sail on Lake Michigan. Mom got him a violin for his 40th birthday and he ended up playing in the Manitowoc Symphony for decades. When we had an exchange student from a far off land or when one of my siblings went abroad, he would learn the basics of the language. When our church was getting rid of its pipe organ, he bought it, took it apart, built a chapel to house it and then reassembled it. He'd make igloos in the winter and we would sometimes camp out over night. Dad could tell you any bird that you were hearing or seeing. I marveled when he would call a black-capped chickadee down to a branch right near him. My own path in life has been non-traditional. I could always count on Dad for gentle, sage advice, free from judgment. Dad and Mom together instilled in us a sense of compassion and service. At one point, I needed to take a break from being at his side. Linda and I drove to the earth home where he and Mom had lived. We walked in the woods, stopping at a few of the buildings that he made, and at the remembrance path where our family ancestors ashes are scattered. I paused to recall some of the projects that I helped with, wondering where the time went. The woods were quiet enough to hear birds calling out across the forest. At one point, I yelled Dad’s name. These woods were his spiritual place. Before I went back to his side, I filled a small bag with some dirt, a rock, a hickory nut and a branch of a cedar tree that I cut with his hatchet. Dad was a man of the land and I wanted these things in the room with him.

Before I left town to go to Madison, I posed the question to a few people, “How do you say goodbye to a parent?” Sadly, some people don’t have this opportunity as death comes suddenly. My friend Barb provided an answer that is resonating with me right now: “You don’t say goodbye; a parent stays with you.” When I was with Dad the last few days, I refused to say goodbye. Instead, I chose to say peace, or peace be with you. As Dad’s breathing became labored, I truly wanted him to be at peace.

For some time now, Dan Fogelberg's song, Leader of the Band has been playing in my mind:

Sitting with family, sometimes in the dark, listening to Dad breathe, gave us a chance to share memories. There was laughter and there were tears. I am hopeful that Dad could feel the love around him and relish in his legacy. This morning I decided to go for an early morning nature walk. Three steps out the door and I heard a chickadee calling. The gentle cool tears on my cheek left me with the question: why does my heart feel heavier if it has a big hole?