The End is Where it Begins

This is probably going to be most difficult thing I will ever write and publish, and that is why I am starting this marvelous adventure with it — if I can express in this post a small fraction of the feelings and thoughts I would like to, then all future posts will be a cinch.

Each one of us will die. What we do between now and then is up to us.

One road, and to one bourne
We are all goaded. Late
Or soon will issue from the urn
Of unrelenting Fate
The lot that in yon bark exiles us all
To undiscovered shores, from which is no recall.
                                                                                  -Horace

Death is unavoidable, so let’s not avoid it.

On March 7, 2021, my dad died. A few of us “kids” had the honor of being with him at the end. The experience I had is my own, and I respect my siblings’ own experiences of his passing too much to even hint that mine stands for or parallels theirs. As Franz Schubert said, and as my dad was fond of quoting,

No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine that they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.

My dad would make reference to that quotation not to create a chasm between people but for precisely the opposite reason: by acknowledging the depth and untranslatableness of another’s most precious emotions, one is actually sympathizing. I try to continue spreading that wisdom by using the quotation when teaching the history of the Holocaust, one of the most untranslatable historical events. By maintaining awareness of one’s perspective and knowing that another’s experience was/is not the same as one’s own, one shows respect and builds a basis for understanding.

People offer condolences and I am grateful for their sincere empathy. Nonetheless Schubert’s quotation comes to my mind every time I hear a condolence for the simple reason that whoever is reaching out is unable to know the multitude of memories and emotions that slam into me when I think of my dad. If they didn’t know my dad, they imagine that what I am going through is what they went through when someone close to them died. And if they knew my dad, a multitude of different memories slam into them, too; the grief we feel is our own. At the same time, those different memories point towards the essence of the person who died.

Who was my dad? I enjoyed teasing him that he was born to be a dad. He seemed that way to me sometimes because he gave to me what I needed. He listened. He was honest with me and I could be honest with him. He had expectations but believed in free will.

Still, of course he was not only a dad for he lived a full life with many turns, decisions, and even regrets. This also made him better at being a dad as far as I’m concerned. He did not put on a role of being dad — he was who he was and he lived his life according to his own conscience and as best he could.

I believe he died the way he wanted to die, also according to his own conscience. In his hospital bed, he met with his priest on March 5 and he signed checks to pay bills on March 6 (ridiculous! but that’s what he wanted). He stayed lucid until it became too much and then he asked for the painkiller and anti-anxiety meds on his own. These meds caused him, over the hours, to sleep for small stretches of time and when he woke up, we would ask him gently what he had been dreaming about.

One of these times he answered, “[something unintelligible]…chasing dogs.”

There it was. One of his lifelong deeply held convictions: he loved animals, foremost horses and wild birds and dogs. Animals were special to him. Horses worked with him in the fields on the farm. Birds, especially chickadees, were wonderful friends who visited daily. Dogs were loyal, cute, fun, beautiful furballs of pure love. My dad always perceived the individuality and the intelligence of animals.

“Chasing dogs.” The phrase has permeated my mind for months.

We had shared a love of animals.

A black-capped chickadee eats from my hand at my dad’s house in December 2017.

Hearing him say “chasing dogs” in his final hours stirred feelings and questions in my core and they will not let go. Have I been chasing enough dogs, literally and figuratively, in my life? An animal sanctuary had been a dream for years, but could I actually pursue it? I had decided on a path to study history, not veterinary science, way back in high school — is it possible to “give up” one’s training and “success” for a brand new gamble?

Answers come slowly. Each one of us will die. What we do between now and then is up to us. A success is never something that we give up, but what we build on.

I tend to be slow and methodical. It’s been months and months since he died. I have been taking tiny steps toward this new gamble. Writing on substack is one of those steps. Sharing on substack is hope. It is a torch I am lighting in the dark in the hopes that others out there will understand.

Answers come slowly. I dream of building up a good spot, a place where animals, including humans, can find some peace and be themselves. Over the months I have fantasized about what it could do for animals, what it might look like, where it might be. I painted a watercolor of it because I had to get the visual out of my head (that’s for a different post).

Now is the time to take genuine steps toward making it real. Now is all we have. I decided I would like to invite others to join me, at least virtually. Hence this substack. The world is always changing and it seems chaotic and I think we could use more sharing, thoughtfulness, honesty, and chasing dogs.

This is the first time that I have attempted to put into written words my experience of my dad’s death. Thank you for listening. I know I have not written all that could be written, that’s impossible. I hope I have written enough to begin to convey one of the why’s for this venture.

The obituary for my dad