In the brisk shadow of a melancholy morning, a thick layer of frost encapsulates my windshield. I reach into the trunk of my car in search of an ice-scrapper, and instead find a double tied, bulging bag of chocolates that I had forgotten to give to my father. It is my first and only regret.
On Sunday, January 29th, 2012, at 9:50 pm - I along with my sister Colleen, my husband Mark, and my fathers caregiver Roshan - witnessed my fathers final breath.
He fought hard and long and in the end, he went out on his own terms. It was dramatic. It was beautiful. It was a privilege to be by his side, just as I have been for most of my adult life.
I was instructed by the Monsignor to keep my father's eulogy to 5 minutes or less. I wanted to tell the Monsignor how callous his comment was, instead I bit my tongue and delivered a eulogy that lasted 5 minutes and 20 seconds.
The first time I read anything I had written out loud, was here, at my son’s funeral, with my dear friend Sandy by my side. When I finished I caught a glimpse of my father. He was smiling. It was the first time I knew he was proud of me.
I stressed about what I would say today, during my 5 allotted minutes, and then realized most of it has already been written. It is the beginning, and a continuing thread in my memoir.
Chapter One begins…
It is the first taste of summer, the first Friday of June, when the sun and wind are in perfect tune. We are together again, just as we often are. My father sits on the front porch of our office in his classic white, high-backed rocking chair, too afraid to rock, and I stand beside him, too uncomfortable to sit.
He clings to his independence - his stubborn, thick Irish temperament - while I patiently wait for him to need me just as I have always needed him. I wait for his Parkinson’s disease to slow him down enough for us to get to know each other …
My father and I did more together after his diagnosis then we did in all the years prior.
Instead of being a man who was forever on the go, he became calm, soft spoken and complacent. No matter what I suggested, his answer was always the same... “OHHHH kay.”
Together, on the suggestion of his fellow college football allie, Ed Yeterian, we went to the University of Notre Dame and witnessed an Army vs Notre Dame football game. It was the first time we had been on a plane together.
We went to Giants football games. We went to several Uconn Husky Womens basketball games.
We took a road trip to Vermont, to visit my sister Colleen and reminisced about our days skiing on Killington Mountain.
We took endless trips to the cemetery, to the ice cream parlor, and to job sites.
We did things for him but we also did things just for me.
On warm, sunny, Tuesday afternoons we took tia chi classes in Havemeyer park. We took zumba classes at the Senior center. We went to polo matches at Conyars Farm. We took the ferry to Island Beach where my father would eat 4 or 5 hotdogs smothered in onions and mustard, then put his feet in the sand, and stare silently at the sound.
In the wake of my son’s death, timed with the onset of his Parkinson’s disease, our family grew closer. We did simple, deliberate thing together. Easter egg hunts. Halloween trick or treating, and random excuses for celebrations.
In June of 2009, we went to see the epic, science fiction film, Avatar. It was our first and only time together at a movie theater.
Parking was difficult. I struggled to get as close to the theater as possible. When I outmaneuvered a young woman to get a parking space, she challenged me in a verbal fit of words.
With one hand steadying my father, I did my best to defuse her but she was cruel, crude and cunning.
“Shut up you old cow!” she screamed.
Had my father not been there, I would have given her something to talk about. Instead I wished her a good day and into the theater we went.
For the next two hours and 42 minutes, I stewed about the altercation. The only thing I remember about the film was how adorable my father looked in his 3D glasses.
As we exited the theater I asked my father if he liked the movie.
“It was okay” he answered.
“Well then,” I asked, “what was your favorite part?”
With a twinkle in his eye he answered, “when that girl called you an old cow.”
I know my father would not want me to talk about his accomplishments. But he would want me to thank those of you who increased the joy quotient in his daily routine.
Number one on that list is Roshan.
For almost two solid years, Roshan cared for my father but it was never a job to him. Everything he did came from a place of love. He cooked, cleaned and comforted my father in a way that he had not experienced since he was a young boy. Because of Roshan I never worried about my father. Through example he taught me about dignity, compassion and grace .
This may come as a shock to some of you but Butch Daly, is not my brother, father, uncle or husband… More importantly, in addition to being a coworker, a comrade, and a confidant - he is by far, the most loyal man I have ever known. He has been devoted to my father, to my family, to the dogs, and to the company for over 45 years.
My father stopped worrying about me the day Peggy Curcio came on board. In addition to running the office, she reads my mind, finds my car keys, reminds me to turn my car off and accompanies me on tasks that range from complex to comical.
In respect to the honorable William B. Lewis and the entire Lewis family, you made a major impact in my fathers life, and in turn, in my life. You made him an extended part of your family. You opened your hearts and your home to him. You taught him how to be a father.
In addition to his family, my father was surrounded by a quirky collection of friends. Those here and in the hereafter who taught me something unique about my father. This includes but is not limited too:
Walter Mckeever, Dick Degnant, John O’leary, Dave Peabody, Charlie Feldman, Robert Krause, Steve Sherry, Teddy Morano, Father Joe Shay, Jack Newel, Ed Silva, Hugie Quinn, and the entire Halligan clan, you are the best of the best.
In closing I’d like to thank all of you who wear the Kennedy name on your back, on your sleeve, on your hat, and especially in your heart. Know that, every day, you made my father proud.
My father lost his ability to smile towards the end of his life. A reminder to me that I will smile, often. I will smile especially when I feel I have no reason.
xo,Monkey ME
This is the last video I have of my father in a healthy state. It ends with...
Monkey ME: ..."Don't say goodbye, say goodnight. Love you."
Dad (oh, so softly): "Love you."
