Whirlwind

My dad died twenty-two years ago today. He has now been gone for longer than I knew him. The other day I was thinking about how much of a factor time plays in the effectiveness of our relationships with people. While it is certainly important, I think it plays less of a role than we give it credit for. The bonds we forge with people can be made relatively quickly, their intensity dependent upon a multitude of factors -- time being only one of them.

Lewis died on a Thursday. I found out that evening, after working at Circuit City that day. The news was not unexpected, though still felt like a punch to the chest. I worked the next three days. Such is the way with retail. It sounds cliche, but working did help to keep my mind off things. I even went out to the clubs that weekend, both for fun and for work (I DJ'd at one of the bars in town during that time). That Saturday night I went to an after-party. It was 2 o'clock in the morning, there was debauchery all around, and I thought, 'What am I doing? My father's just died.' Being alive, of course, was the answer.

Come Monday, it was time to make the 80 mile drive to Springfield (where dad had moved to a few years earlier) for the visitation. The funeral was to be the next day. The body lay in repose in a small chapel. It seemed like mostly family was there. My cousin Heather said some comforting words. Lewis looked small in his coffin. Obviously, I'd noticed his weight loss during his final months, but seeing him on display really brought it home. He'd always been a big man -- overweight, but not fat, if that makes any sense -- and to see him as he was in that chapel was to see a different man than the one I'd grown up with.

Tuesday I drove back to Springfield for the funeral. It was in an open and airy church, one of the more modern structures, and the service (what I remember of it) was nice. Several of dad's friends and kinfolk were in attendance, including relatives from my mom's side of the family. It was nice of them to attend, though it all felt like such a blur. After the funeral, we drove to Camp Butler cemetery, just outside of Springfield. Dad's widow, Denice, was given the American flag that had been draped over his coffin. Then we all drove to the house she'd shared with Lewis and their son, Dillon, for the perfunctory post-funeral reception.

I couldn't tolerate very much of the reception -- too many people, too much chatter. I looked over in a corner of the study, and there was dad's oxygen tank. I had to leave. Finally, after days of putting-off dealing with what had happened, it all began to catch up with me. Making some polite goodbyes, I eventually left, driving back to Champaign with my half-sisters along for the ride. It was a quiet journey home.

What I've just recounted is a very Matt-centric account of what happened in the days following August 21, 1997. During the intervening years, it occurred to me, more than once, that I wasn't a very good son-in-law. Lewis's widow, Denice, probably could have used some help during that time. Or, at the very least, I could have asked if she did. Instead, I stayed busy with my own world, only bothering to visit Springfield for the necessary visitation and funeral appearances. And, when things got a little emotional at the reception, woe is me took over and I left, not a thought given to how Denice was doing, or anyone else for that matter.

I'd like to say that, if this had all happened when I was older, it would have been different. I would have been more thoughtful of how other people were doing, what their needs were, etc. But then time is a luxury we don't have. We often think we do, but then we're strictly on its timetable. And how long we know someone for, the length of time they're a part of our lives, isn't always up to us, nor is it the determining factor for how important they may be to how we live and who we are. Sometimes, these are things we discover the hard way.