I was late to Garry’s viewing. The family dutifully greeted me among a few other final visitors. As a younger man I dreaded any trip to the funeral home. Now, it occurs with such frequency that it almost seems second nature. In the same regard, I do not fear my own mortality with the same sense of morbidity as I did when I was 25. The ceremony and the tradition seem purposeful and necessary. I would suppose it seems the natural course of things as long as the deaths come in the expected order. That expected order is all too often disrupted.
As a parent, my greatest fears moved from concern for my own mortality to the concern for my wife and children. Our family has been fortunate, so possibly my worry has been of the productive variety. That is what I like to think. Now with grandchildren, I hear in my own children’s voices evidence of the same transition in their lives. Worry, to some degree, is constructive. Too much worry is destructive. Strike a balance … moderation in all things.
Every parent feels empathy for a parent who loses a child. As a school person of nearly 40 years, I have witnessed many gut wrenching funerals. Children of teaching colleagues, and high school students from all form of accidents and disease, casualties of war, suicides, and accidental shootings. Most frightening is the randomness of such events. One can speak to whatever religious platitudes they may feel comfortable with, but the statistics point to bad luck for most of these victims. I am inclined to scream when someone suggests that God decided to take them.
I did not know Garry for a long time nor or especially well. We had a few cursory conversations over the years. He was in a position of high profile and importance in our town as the director of the Chamber of Commerce. We might nod when we saw each other. We might have sat at the same table at a wedding or local social event. We did not cross paths often. I had heard people in the community praise his work and his efforts. I had heard others disparage him for some perceived slight he might have fomented upon them. He might have heard the same of me, or more likely, nothing at all.
As chance would have it, we served on the same non-profit board of directors the last two years of Garry’s life. I found him to be genuine and truly concerned for the young people we were there to serve. He was productive and a hard worker. He certainly was not self-absorbed or standoffish in any way. He was a great addition to the board. And, we had opportunities to talk. He was engaging and in response to my question about how he ever came to Bluffton, Indiana, from Illinois, he told me the story. It was an entertaining story. Most importantly, he told me that despite being 70 years old himself and having moved here long ago, that he still returned on a regular basis to his hometown in Illinois to visit his father. With a big grin he said, “And my dad is 95 and still living! Do you believe it?” I distinctly remember his smile as he spoke. He had not stopped being his dad’s kid.
When our children are young, we are anxious for them to grow older and relieve our innermost fears only to find more troubling worries as they become teenagers and beyond. Then we think, well if they just find a great spouse, get married, have a family life of their own, then we as their parents can relax. There will be no more sleepless nights. After all, once we get past productive worry, then it becomes a sin. I remember a priest framing those words in a very nice homily. I appreciated the reassurances at the time as I do now.
So, when does a parent stop worrying out of concern for their child? When is “passing on” a natural occurrence of nature and not an event worthy of parental grief?
I was late enough to the funeral home that day that as I approached the open coffin a family member was helping an elderly gentleman from his seat nearby up to the coffin. It suddenly occurred to me that this must be Garry’s father, and memories of his story came back quickly. I stood directly behind them. They were unaware of my presence. The old man, stooped as he was, gingerly transferred his weight from his walker to the edge of the coffin and leaned in. He and the family member spoke inaudibly. Then what was at first almost imperceptible movement transitioned to visible shaking as the old man began to cry. He heaved noticeably for about 30 seconds, composed himself, and then, with help, transferred his weight back to the walker. Words of reassurance were spoken between them as they began to move slowly to the back door of the funeral home.
Sadly, Garry had become ill and died two years into his stint on the board of directors. We were not great friends, only casual acquaintances. But I got to see something very special. I was allowed to look through a window into the heart of a 95-year-old man who had lost his 70-year-old son. And I guess that answered the question. We never stop being parents.
I have no idea whether Garry’s father was lucid, or whether at 95 he was ravaged by the insidious dementia that we all fear will come to our door before the grim reaper arrives. If it is a race, for myself, I root for the reaper. What I do know is that his emotion was real. I have no doubt of that. Even at 95, he was not immune from the greatest injustice life can impose upon a parent, the loss of a child. I was honored to witness the last tangible bit of interaction between a loving father and his son.
Here’s the thing: Parents will forever be parents.
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
