Since the start of the year I've only posted twice, in this space. Both posts consisted of photographs of my father.
Below is another picture, from a family album I've had for some time: it is of my father and me, from 1984 or 1985. My father was in his sixties; I was in my late twenties.
In late January, my father's wife, Anita (they became a couple in 2009, and married in 2014), sent me a number of boxes of family items, belongings of my father's I had asked for--photographs, books, files, certain objects/mementos.
I've spent much time, since then, going through the items--surprised in particular by a number of photos which had been stored away, family pictures from the 1950s and 1960s that I don't remember having seen before.
The items I received include papers and miscellanea related to my father's decades-long OB/GYN medical practice, work to which he was devoted; files concerning his two books about childbirth (one published in 1962, the other in 1971); papers and photographs from his years in the Navy; and various items from the years he spent as an actor, which began toward the end of his private practice (when he stepped away from the obstetrical part of his work, and therefore had a far more predictable schedule). He appeared, over the course of thirty-plus years, in community (and some professional) theater, in Boston and throughout Greater Boston. His acting (which also included work in independent films) continued into his nineties.
In November, I went to Massachusetts to see him. Anita had to go out of town for a brief trip, and--in that I had recently mentioned coming for a visit--she suggested I drive up at that time, to keep him company while she was away.
Four months earlier, in July, he had turned 100.
I cannot say he was in great condition, during the November visit. As had been true for a while, he tired very easily, and had a lot of difficulty walking. His memory, intermittently, was not what it once had been; this had also been true for some time.
At one point during the visit--this took place, really, out of the blue--we started singing some songs. It became the theme, of sorts, of the visit.
I'd begin singing something, say, by Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey--such as, "Everything Happens to Me"--and we would take turns with the lyrics.
I sang, "I make a date for golf..."
And my Dad sang, "...and you can bet your life it rains."
Me: "I try to give a party..."
Dad: "...and the guy upstairs complains."
Me: "I guess I'll go through life..."
Dad: "...just catching colds and missing trains."
Both of us: "Everything happens to me..."
We did this for a good while, sang songs my Dad particularly liked: "Pennies from Heaven," "Love Is Here to Stay," "About a Quarter to Nine," others.
I went to the piano in the apartment, and played a few more songs that we sang to.
Later, he became tired, and lay down in the bedroom. I took out my iphone, lay down on the bed too, and found songs on YouTube. I played them for him, and we sang along with the singers: Sinatra, Al Jolson, others. He was a bit mystified as to what YouTube was, but was clearly delighted by it.
The visit, which took place over a few days, was one of the nicest times we ever spent together. It would be the last time we saw each other.
On the last day of December, having become ill, he had to go to the emergency room of the local hospital. There were no rooms available, however, because of the number of Covid patients who had been admitted. He was therefore treated in an area of the emergency room, and remained there. He was, as described to my brother and me, in good spirits--joking with the nurses, for example. Yet his condition deteriorated. He went to sleep, and then, we were told, died in his sleep, before five in the morning on New Year's Day.
I have not felt able, since his death, to write anything about him here, other than posting the various pictures of him.
My father was obviously not a young man when he died; he had a very long (and very good) life. One cannot be entirely surprised when someone who is 100 dies.
Yet, a month and a half later, there remains a sense (I am sure familiar to many) of dislocation, or perhaps disorientation; a feeling that life has taken on an odd, foreign aspect. I don't doubt that this pall--and the sense of melancholy--will remain for a good while.
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("Everything Happens to Me," music by Matt Dennis, lyrics by Tom Adair, 1940, © Universal Music Publishing Group)
(Photo, above, by Suzanne Fielding)
