A Long Week

It’s been a week since my father died. It’s been interesting.

The key component of the week has been people. My mom’s family come to funerals like moths to a flame, and this time was no exception. I think only a couple of the relatives that loved my dad elected not to come. One, because she doesn’t like to travel (I can so relate to that), and one who had planned to attend but seemed to balk after his mother, my aunt, changed plans and came with a different sibling instead. I don’t pretend to know the politics of their family in detail, but I’m not totally surprised by this.

Then came Diane*, a long-time friend of my brother’s and a friend of the family in general. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. As we discussed when she was here, she’s not just a friend, over the years she has become part of our family and well-loved. We’ve been there for her whenever she’s needed it, and she’s obviously done likewise: flying in from Hawaii the day after my dad passed, just to visit with us before having to fly back to the islands to her practice the following morning.

When she greeted me, she called me “brother”. She explained that since my brother always calls me “brother”, that’s the name she’s gotten to know me by over the years. I have no problems at all with that. If possible, it even makes me feel that much closer to my unlikely Korean little sister.

So, despite my father’s death, the week started well. We’d reestablished and rekindled the deep and long-lasting love we have for Diane.

The majority of the week revolved around the funeral. My parents were very considerate by pre-arranging and paying for their funeral services. As a result, we didn’t have to stress out about a lot of the logistics.

When my dad died, the hospice (I guess I should have mentioned that he died in the hospice In Patient Unit — my mom didn’t want to have to cope with the creepiness of him dying at home) immediately called the mortuary they’d already been told to use to pick up the body. My brother, mother, and I lingered until the mortuary staff arrived, at which point it was my duty to keep my mother from seeing the body bag. It seems that she’s really creeped out by body bags. Who knew?

When we met with the funeral director the next day, the process was fairly straight-forward. There were some details that were added, and the casket needed to be changed as the one my father had requested was no longer available, but by and large it was smooth sailing.

Of course when I say smooth sailing, I mean that there was an inevitable bump in the road. We got a call from the funeral director the morning of the viewing telling us that the embalming job wasn’t up to his standards, and that he’d be refunding us the additional fees we’d been charged during our previous meeting. We’d decide whether to close the casket after taking a look before the viewing.

We weren’t at all sure what we’d find when we looked at my dad’s embalmed body. Sure enough, there were errors. The right eye was obviously bulging… much larger than the left eye. There was also a problem with the teeth that we couldn’t quite pin down. They looked too big somehow, like the modeling paste used to plump them out had been used to excess. The total effect wasn’t so bad that we would close the casket, but we did have one of my uncles retrieve my dad’s glasses from home so that we could camouflage the problem with the eye.

I like to think that the funeral director enjoyed our little group of mourners that evening of the viewing and rosary. I mean, for the most part, there was negligible mourning. We are all visiting and laughing. Generally speaking, we were just enjoying ourselves to the extent you can in these circumstances. As I said, this group is very experienced with funerals, and my dad’s death was far from shocking. This was more of a family reunion than a time of sadness.

One thing that I do have to say is that Catholic services and me still don’t mix. ’nuff said.

When eulogy time came, I was the only one who spoke. I’d thought about things that I’d want to include for over a week, starting with when my dad re-entered the hospice for the final few days of his life. The actual writing took place in fits and spurts the day before and the day of the rosary. Though I was pretty certain that I would be the only speaker, I did tell people that this wasn’t “the” eulogy, but “my” eulogy. I’d tried to make it heartfelt, personal, and yet be inclusive of the experience others in attendance had of my dad.

Good Evening,
I first met my father in April 1961. I’ve heard the stories of what he did before then: growing up in Indiana, joining the Navy, going to school at DeVry in Chicago, working in Japan, meeting my mom in T or C when he was assigned to the space surveillance site, having a long-distance relationship with the woman before marrying her and going off to Hawaii. …And then he returned to New Mexico and it was my turn to meet him.

I got to know him in so many different venues: at home, at work, and at play. I like to think that I got to know him pretty well. One thing I am certain of, was that I was a beneficiary of the man that he was.

I think the single most obvious trait he had was his seemingly tireless energy. He would think nothing about mowing lawns, cutting down a few tree branches, getting cars serviced, playing a few sets of tennis, and then maybe going out for a walk. All on the same day. Personally, I thought it was nuts, but it made him happy.

If anything defined him, it was the happiness and fulfillment of doing — especially for his family. It didn’t really matter what he was doing, just the acts alone seemed to be sufficient. Even so, I think he found the greatest joy in building things out of wood. Give him a plank, a saw, and some screws and a screwdriver; and he could easily disappear for days until he built something.

While I was in awe of his stamina while he was in his prime, once I started taking hold of the reins of the things he was less and less able to do, I discovered how amazing it was that he could keep up that pace day after day, year after year.

And, I have to say, we got some pretty cool furniture out of it.

It’s hard to know exactly the source of this kind of work ethic. I think that growing up in Indiana was the foundation.

When we worked on home projects together, he would reminisce about having to stack hay, or bags of cement; or about when he’d help his father and brothers to construct or paint buildings, or any number of other physically taxing jobs.

Because he considered himself the runt of the litter, and a bit scrawny, he probably pushed himself more than he needed to — and that carried over into his adult life. It also painted him with a stoic, serious demeanor that many people found a bit intimidating.

Growing up, I, too, viewed my father as being really serious. This meant that one of the most shocking discoveries I ever had about my dad was that he had a wicked sense of humor. Sure, he laughed heartily at comedians on TV, but I’d never thought of him as having a funny bone.

Then, when I was a young teenager, he related this story about a day he had at the lab. Seems these two guys were struggling to move some heavy piece of equipment and they saw my dad, whom they worked for. They asked if he could give them a hand. So he stood his ground and clapped [clap]. I thought this was brilliant, and he reveled in the fact that the guys were stunned that Dick Carter would be something other than serious on the job.

Over the years, I found that this was only the barest tip of the iceberg. My father was so much more of a clown than he usually revealed to the world. Once I was an adult, our relationship changed to something that always had fun as an element. That continued on into his waning days when I was still able to make him laugh, despite the difficulties he was having.

Mostly, though, he showed me what it was do be a decent human being.

I saw it when six-year-old me fell in the street, hurting my knees, and he rushed to pick me up and carry me home.

I saw it when he again rescued me in college, when a car break-down left me stranded far from home, and he drove for hours to retrieve me and my friends.

I saw it when my cousins would fight and instead of instantly judging, he would try to be fair and listen first, instead of simply assigning blame based on reputation.

I saw it when we would go on walks and simply talk about life.

I saw it when I witnessed first-hand how to treat other people at work with respect.

I saw it when he attended every school function and most of my tennis matches.

I saw it when he’d allow me to get hurt, or make my own mistakes, instead of over-protecting me. (And I still have the scars to prove that.)

I felt it everyday when I knew that no matter what, I had someone who would ALWAYS be on my side when it mattered.

Most of us here have been beneficiaries of the man my dad was — if not directly from him, then from the people he touched. I got to receive those benefits for all my life.

I think that I was pretty lucky to know him.

After it was done, I got a round of applause from the room. Combined with the comments afterward, it seems that the eulogy was a hit. I inferred from the comments that it was the best one yet delivered in our family, and given the number of these events that have been had, that’s saying something.

The next day was the funeral service. It was mercifully short. It was also not nearly as well-attended as the rosary given that many people actually have jobs. Weird.

At any rate, the family loitered around the funeral home for a bit waiting to start the procession up to Santa Fe where my dad was to be interred in the National Cemetery there. Being a Navy veteran, that’s where he wanted to be buried. When honors were rendered, this was the only time that my eyes welled up. No tears flowed, but they definitely threatened. Partly this was because of my dad, and partly was because I tend to well up at military funerals. When I hear the words “…and the thanks of a grateful nation,” well, it just gets to me. That it was my dad in that casket, hearing taps and the boatswain’s whistle piping his departure… well, that was personal.

Being at the National Cemetery was personal for a lot of my relatives as well. Not far from where the ceremony took place they gathered around the headstone of my mom’s youngest brother. In some ways, I think this funeral was also for him and his family again.

The last bit of business was a dash back to Albuquerque for the reception. Holding to the nature of the day, it was of course held at a sports bar. To be fair, one of my cousins works in the bar, so the room and food were easier to arrange. It was yet another fun time. I even got to know one of my young cousins better. I hadn’t seen her since she was a wee little thing, and how she’s fourteen going on thirty. We talked about a lot of things, and I told her to contact me whenever she has any problems in school… algebra seems to be particularly vexing at present. In her, I think I sort of acquired another little sister. The week was apparently littered with them :-)

In a few hours, the last relative will depart from our home back to theirs. It’s been a week since my dad died, and this afternoon will start a new era in our household, as it will be just my mom, bro, and me for the first time. It will be interesting to see what this new adventure will hold now that reality and emotions will finally have a chance to take purchase in our lives.

Vaya con dios, Papa.

* Names have been changed