It's been 28 years since my dad celebrated his last birthday (his 60th). He had been hospitalized a number of times in 1988, and between heart attacks and strokes, we weren't sure how long he would last. Thinking back on it now, as the pain of loss has faded, there were so many bittersweet yet funny moments ...
My mother was called up to the hospital every afternoon to be with him, as his vitals were so low that they thought he wouldn't make it ... yet, he consistently woke up the next morning and shocked the nurses singing "God Bless America." In hospital, with the curtain pulled around his bed, Dad was convinced he was in a tent. I think he may have thought he was in a firefighting camp with his brother, who used to work for Forestry in BC. He spent Father's Day in hospital but came home on a day pass for his birthday. His brother, Ted, called to chat and Dad said "I don't know why I'm in hospital. I'm not sick. I'm just weak." A week later, he was sent home ... the doctor said they had no clue if he was going to die or to live for weeks, months, or years. I came over to supervise him at lunch, and he was eating pudding ... sort of. He was definitely spooning pudding into his mouth, but he wasn't swallowing -- and when his mouth was full, he decided maybe a drink of water would help the pudding go down.
Even at the funeral home, there were moments of humour. The funeral director had parted his hair on the wrong side, and we thought it should be the way he usually wore it. Resting the water glass on Dad's chest, the man combed his hair to the correct side, and we broke into giggles picturing what Dad would do if the water spilled! The funeral director also asked how Dad would have felt about having a hair clip holding his hair until it dried. Mom related a few incidents about Dad's hair-dressing experiences ... this was not the first time there had been a clip in his hair, apparently.
I should have more memories of my father, but I was quite young when I was born, and didn't have a chance to record my thoughts. We have pictures of him in my crib because I wasn't sleepy and he was. We moved every few years ... Mom's conclusion was that he was a gypsy. Those were the days when employment was readily available, and if he didn't like his job, he got a new one, and another one, and so it went ... and we went with him.
I know that we have a lot of similarities ... the dark eyes and eyebrows from the McRae family are only the beginning. He loved jokes and puns ... and this has come down to me ... and my children get a double dose if this is passed on genetically, because my husband has the same crazy sense of humour as well. My mother just shakes her head when I come out with some of the same kinds of puns that he would have used. He had thick hair, and in photos, he looked like Elvis ... yet he said he wanted to be bald so he could wash his face and head all at once in the morning.
He loved his uniform. He was too young for the military in World War II, but years later, he had fun trying on his younger brother's RCMP uniform for a photo. When he was hired to work at the weigh scales, I think he must have hit a high point on his bucket list and wore that government uniform with pride each day. I have the same feeling about going to work at O'Keefe Ranch in costume, with an official name badge.
He wasn't afraid to try things, even if some would have said he wasn't qualified. (He said his reason for not finishing school was that his dad was in the grade above him and he couldn't go further.) When asked if he wanted to join the choir, the question was whether he was a tenor. Dad's response: "Tenor eleven."
Because of his underlying illness (tumour of the pituitary gland), his hair went grey very early. When I was hospitalized in Alberta to have my tonsils out, Dad had left a crossword puzzle book at the nurses' station for me. The nurse who brought it to me informed my that my grandpa had left it for me. Even at age 7 or 8, I was laughing inside because both of my grandfathers had already passed away, and the "grandpa" was my dad (probably only 40 at the time).
My sister and I were rivals for his attention. She had very short hair and (before she went to school), got to go places with him, so he called her his "little boy Charley." One day, I decided I was going to get to him first, so I walked by myself to the main avenue he would turn off to get to our street. Even a half block ride with him was worth it, if I could get to him first. Yet I'm sure he loved us equally ... just differently.
Our lives would have been different if he had lived past 60. There were physical and mental health issues that would not have allowed him to be the grandfather he would have wanted to be. But. my children missed his presence and influence (whether for good or bad) ... when we would go to the playground, they would see a grey-haired man pushing little ones on the swing, and they would ask "why don't we have a grandpa?"
Random rambling as Dad's birthday closes ... his first grandson (my sister's oldest) shares the same birthday and turned 22 today. My older son bears Dad's name as his middle name. Whenever Facebook tells me whose birthday is on June 25, I remember that this was Dad's day ... and now there are 6 months until Christmas!!
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