Daddy's Life Sketch

How can I tell you about my Daddy? What would he want me to say? He wouldn’t say much about himself. He wouldn’t tell you about his important accomplishments or brag about anything he’d ever done. No. He’d tell you about the strangers he met at the store... or maybe even bring them home for dinner--no longer strangers, but his friends.  He’d tell you about his family. He’d tell you about his Grandma’s “snappy brown eyes,” or the antic of a grandchild. He might tell you about his love of travel and adventure,  or about the new rhody he bought for the yard. More likely, he’d ask you about you, and do the listening. It was not so much the words he spoke, but the life he lived that did the telling.

Daddy was born, as the story goes, at home during the middle of a snowstorm, on Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. February 12, 1923, in College Place, WA. He admired Lincoln, and took pleasure in sharing the day with him.

His parents, Virgil and Verda Burg Becraft, welcomed him into their hearts and did the best they knew to provide a loving and caring home for their burgeoning family. He joined brother Teddy, 14 months older.  Jaime, an older brother, had already died in infancy. Six years later sister Margaret joined the family, and after three more years sister Marilyn arrived. 

As I began this “life sketch” about Daddy, I began in  linear fashion,  from beginning to end, according to a timeline. I got stuck. As I pondered, I concluded that a sketch is not created from a starting line, but includes shades and shaping and adding detail here and there. It is with this that I continue. His life did have a beginning, and sadly, an ending--for those of us who remain. But it is not his ending, and in that, I take hope.

I’ll share some of the shading, the shaping, the detail.

Daddy was a vegetarian. His mother was, and his grandmother. To the dismay of some of the rest of us, he would hardly touch “fake meat,” especially if it resembled the “real deal.” He and Mom had some words about this on occasion. Hot dogs? What’s a picnic without? And by hot dogs, I mean Vega-links or Big Franks. He wouldn’t touch them. Tomato sandwiches with butter suited him just fine. He didn’t like mayonnaise or cheese, but he did like beans and berries and cookies, and sweets of any kind. Mom’s pies--he had two favorites: Hot and Cold. He had a sweet tooth. At Christmas time he’d reminisce about his Grandmother’s divinity fudge. He was diagnosed diabetic about 5 years ago.

Daddy loved water. Swimming. A cool dip at the end of the day. Whiskeytown Lake in the hot California sun. Mom would sit in her lawn chair and dangle her feet in the water. Daddy would immerse himself and swim for the floating platform off shore from which to dive. I think he’d have gotten a boat if Mom had shared this love. When he was 80, he came to Camp MiVoden with our family and went water skiing. Many are the water stories that we could share.

Daddy worked as an X-ray technician for the same group of doctors for nearly 40 years. My dear childhood friend, Marcia (who Daddy counted among his own),  became a radiologist and went to work where he had worked for so many years. She tells me he was legend there, in the finest sense of the word.  While working, he saw that x-ray solutions were being washed down the drain. He asked the doctors if he could save the x-ray solutions and retrieve the silver. I remember him breaking silver off the disks of his machine and filling coffee cans full of silver. He'd hide them in the back of the closet until the next trip  to Berkley to John Drew Smelting. He also received permission to cull old x-ray films from the local hospitals. We’d take trailer loads of film to the smelter as well. He helped pay for his children’s education with this side business. He taught us the value of hard work and ingenuity. Although being an x-ray tech was a respectable profession, I believe he saw himself in his earlier years as not measuring up to his perceived expectations of himself and others--doctor, dentist, preacher or missionary. I took pleasure in seeing him as he grew older in coming to a level of self-acceptance and peace in his own skin. It gave me hope.

Daddy talked fondly of hiking with his father--Mt. Rainier and other trails. He hiked Mt. Shasta at age 60. He spoke fondly of the Pacific Northwest, and as a child, I thought it must be close to heaven.

Daddy served during World War II in the army as a noncombatant. He loved his country, and he loved peace. The horrors of war grieved his soul.

Daddy met Mom, and Mom met Daddy. He fresh out of the Army and she yet a teenager. Their lives were never the same. Mom always said she “knew” immediately that he was the ONE. And he was. As the Daddy of five children, he loved and cherished each one. Each of us could shade and add detail to this sketch in our own unique ways. He unconditionally accepted and loved his childrens' choice of life partners. He delighted in his 14 grandchildren,  and his 3 great-grandchildren. Their friends became his own,  enlarging his "family."  All came under the umbrella of his love for God. This was the "stuff" of life that meant the most to him.

Always, Daddy and Mom had a heart for others. Ours was an inclusive home. Without conscious thought, so it seemed, Daddy carried a commitment in his soul to care for those who couldn’t care for themselves. My cousin says he wouldn’t be here today if it were not my father---and that includes my mother! My cousin lived in our home as another “brother” for a time. When Daddy’s sister Margaret was widowed at the age of 32 with 3 small children, she moved to Redding to be near. He loved her children, and did what he could. When his own mother and later, his father-in-law, became unable to live independently, they made their home with Daddy and Mom. I know this had challenges, but they walked their talk.

Daddy went on a mission trip to Nepal. This was a highlight of his life, and he talked about it, filled a photograph album with pictures, and longed to travel more. Going to Japan to see grandchildren were high points. His blue eyes sparkled each time he returned. I asked him a year or so ago what he wanted to do when he got to heaven, and without a moment’s hesitation, he said he wanted to travel to Pluto.

Daddy and Mom moved to Tillamook 14 years ago. This became their home. In this church and in our larger community, they found care and love. I remember the bank calling one day a few years back and saying that Daddy had walked to town, and needed help getting home. This community watched out for them, even as they had cared for others. Thank you all so much. 

As many of you know, Daddy and Mom came to live in Lee’s and my home a couple of years ago. They did so graciously, though I cannot begin to imagine the grief of losing independence. In their own home, before ours became theirs, they were neat and tidy, and things were orderly and in place. Coming to live in a home with a rowdy rambunctious bunch must have brought a longing at times for their place of quiet peace on the hill. Daddy never complained.  I count it a humble privilege that he could call our home his own.

Oh, I could say so much more!  The sketch is not nearly complete.

Daddy was a loving husband to my mother, a devoted father to his children, a loyal brother, an admiring Grandpa, a caring Uncle, a faithful friend, and a humble servant to His God. 

I miss him. I can hardly grasp that he’s really gone. I’m forever grateful I had him for my Daddy.

Daddy died today.

Daddy died. Am I really saying the words? Today has been a blur, and I can't sleep (And now today has become yesterday!).  I went to check on Daddy this morning before I went on my (planned) 6:00 walk.  I knew as soon as I opened the bedroom door. Mom sat up in bed when I cracked the door. "He won't wake up. Will you wake him up for me?" I moved to his side, and in the dim light saw his face, at peace.

The day before was Josh's birthday, and the day after Joseph's. I whispered in his ear the day before, "Daddy, I know you're in pain. Today is Joshie's birthday. I don't want you to hurt. I really don't. But would you do one more thing for me? Would you wait till tomorrow?" He waited. There will be no birthday reminders of "the day Grandpa died." Thank you, Daddy.

The night before, we had gathered in their room, my brothers and sister, and nearly half of their grandchildren. We sang, we laughed, we shared, we cried. Mom delighted in the affair, as Daddy lay propped beside. "More, more," Mom insisted.  A tear crept down Daddy's face, but no sound from his mouth. What did he hear? What did he know? How did he feel? How much did he hurt? Did he know we loved him? Did he know how much we would miss him? ( I thought I knew, but had no idea, really!). As we went around the circle, we named the names of our children, and their children, telling him that each one loved him. We shared stories of visits made to grandchildren near and far. We thanked him for living a life of integrity and love. We read Psalm 139. Mom prayed, followed by the prayers of others. We thought he'd wake up one more morning. He didn't.

I quietly went from room to room, awakening his sleeping children and grandchildren, telling the somber news. My children--how would I make it without them?  Phone calls to family and friends. Tears flowed. Hugs. More hugs.  Dr. B came bringing comfort, as he had the night before, and the week before, and other times. His care has extended throughout the cycle of our family life, from births of sons to the passing of our Daddy. We are grateful.

Pastor Bill and Sue knock at the door. Their visits have meant so much to Daddy and Mom over the past few weeks, and to all of us. They pray  and hug us. Thank you.

Food arrives, but I'm not hungry. It looks delicious. Where's my appetite? It's not often gone! 89 years wasn't long enough.

I call Hospice to let them know. They make calls. I don't have to. I am grateful for their compassion and practical help in knowing what needs to be done next.

All the while, Mom is awake. I help her get dressed. She's confused. "He's gone," she says, "He's away." She comes out of the room where he lies, "gone." She sits at the table and eats. She gets up, and heads back for the room. She goes to his side, feels his forehead and cheeks, and says "He's cold." She pulls the covers up. "We've got to keep him warm." She leans over and kisses him. "He's not there." My heart breaks. My precious mother, for 65+ years warmed his heart, and his body, and he, hers. "I'm alone now,"  she says. Several more times she returns to the room, "their" room. Mom, we promised Daddy we'd take care of you. We will.

Thank God for Wellspring, adult respite care. Today is the day. Lee, my beloved husband, and sons Joseph and Jonny take her for hot chocolate on the way. She loves Lee, and he her. She grips his arm as he leads her in. She begs him to stay. He does, for awhile. While she is gone, the funeral home comes. The room is empty now. It is no longer "theirs," but "hers." We cry.

Susan, my dear sister in law, and Katrina, caregiver unparallelled, go shopping. They bring home a beautiful pink comforter for Mom's bed. They change bedding and clean the room. Mom will like it. It will be a nice surprise for her. They arrange a new doll and stuffed animals on the bed. She comes home and is delighted.

I think my writing is sounding like we wrapped things up in a neat and tidy package, saying our good byes in ways that matter. For the time we had, I'm grateful. I'm glad we had opportunity "at the end" to sing and share and pray and read Psalms. But this is no neat and  tidy business. I don't like it, not one bit. I'm haunted by the "would've could've should'ves. I'm trying not to ruminate over them. I think part of it's just my process, and each has his or her own. And I know this isn't about me at all. I want to honor the man I was privileged to call Daddy. I want to have faith and trust and all the other "stuff" that some people seem to have much more easily than I. I want to sleep and wake up and have him be my Daddy of his younger-years, and  shave a few years off my own. I want heaven on earth, now.

I'm SO thankful for the love and encouragement and prayers and food and flowers and practical help of friends and family. I need the connection more than ever of people I'm privileged to have as family and friends. Right now, I need to get some sleep. There's so much more on my heart.

Sleep Well, Daddy

Daddy's dying. Part of me is, too. He's always been in my life. Always present. I've always known I was loved. Does he know he is? I sit beside him, studying his deep blue eyes. Does he see me? Does he hear me say, "I love you, Daddy."  What's going on his mind? Always a man of few words, I often wished he would--or could-- talk more. Share his thoughts and feelings. Tell his own history and his own dreams. Give me advice and tell me what to do (though I've always been one to make up my own mind!). Though he could tell of those who came before him,  he rarely spoke of himself. For reasons unknown, that telling did not come easy. More importantly, I heard him say and saw him live the mantra, "I love you."

I imagined he'd live to a hundred. I thought  he'd  keep gardening, keep hiking, keep swimming, keep going to the beach, keep basking in the beauty around, keep cooking and cleaning and mowing lawns, keep riding bikes, keep taking pictures, keep trying new things and learning and smiling, keep going to graduations and weddings and celebrating his family as he always did. I thought he'd keep on keeping on as he always had. He's only 89! (not really very old)!

 Oh, some will say, "He lived a good life." They're right, and this is immensely comforting. Others will say, "At last! he's not suffering anymore." They're right. Others will say, "He lived a long life." Yes, by the standards of this earth, he lived longer than most. I don't how I thought it would happen, his leaving. I didn't imagine we'd  be waiting  day after day, wondering when. Some days I feel guilty that I feel so sad. I got to see you grow old. You saw your children have children, and theirs have children. Others have known the loss of father much too early, as mere children or young(er) adults. Tears have flowed on such occasions, and I've felt a taste of the horrific pain of tragic loss.  Grand exits, some of these good byes, as tears gush, stories are told, and dreams evaporate. Some have never known a Daddy's love, ever. I only imagine such pain, never having known it first hand, but up too close in the lives of some I love. I know I've been so richly blessed for reasons not of my choosing, with having a Daddy who has loved me well. I am humbled. Still I wonder, who will cry? Who will miss him?  Oh, there will be some--- his children and grandchildren and brother and sisters and nieces and nephews and a few remaining friends. We will share stories and laugh together at the remembering, and thank God for a truly good man who blessed our lives. Then we will go to sleep that night and wake up in the morning and begin again. Will it be a relief? Undoubtedly. Will it be easy? Unequivocally, No.

The last words I heard were a soft "ouch ouch ouch" as I moved him a few days ago. Now I only hear his shallow breathing. Daddy, are you hurting? What can I do?  I'm not ready to say good bye. Do I have to? I really want you to sleep in peace, if only for tonight. We'll deal with tomorrow when it comes. How can I make you comfortable?

This has been an unexpected journey these past few years. I'd never given thought that my wise, intelligent parents could succumb to Alzheimers Disease, the label that was given their very differing forms of dementia.  Daddy and Mom came to live in our home nearly two years ago when it became apparent they couldn't live on their own. They gracefully moved out of their home with little protest, though they continued to talk about their "home on the hill." Occasionally I would drive them by, to see the rhododendrons and camelias and variety of trees that Daddy had  carefully chosen, planted and tended in their twelve years "on the hill." Eventually they rarely spoke of it, except in a flash of passing memory.

Daddy loves Mom. Mom loves Daddy, I'm sure.  65 years together. I've often peaked in when they're asleep, and seen their heads bumped up to each other. They sit each in their own recliner, hands bridging the space between. They've had a language all their own. They've spent hours pouring over a pictorial chronicle of their history designed and written by grandson Joseph, "Conversations with my Grandparents. Bob And Betty Becraft." We always figured Mom would go first. She was the one with the "health issues." She seems to have regained the strength of a second childhood. The great paradoxes of life! How will she manage sleeping alone? Will she be afraid? Will she just not remember (doubtfully!)? What will she do without him by her side. They're tied at the hip, still.

 A couple months ago my modest mother got jealous of another woman. Katrina, devoted caregiver, was helping Daddy get dressed as Mom indignantly protested. "What are you doing? It's not appropriate!" Mom kept pacing the hallway and trying to intercept the process. Her ultimate objection came when she walked in, pulled up her top, and waggled her breasts,  "What do you think of these, Mr. B, what do you think of these?" Daddy flashed the biggest grin ever as their eyes locked. Katrina quietly left the room for several minutes. Mom has always staked her position clearly. Some things the mind never forgets. They belong to each other. Daddy's loyalty and love has been without question--ever. My heart aches as I think of how one will survive the loss of the other. I sometimes think that as Daddy saw Mom slip into her long good bye, he joined her journey.

Sometimes I worry as I tell a story such as I just told that I'm being disrespectful to the parents I once knew. Am I? Should I delete such stories from their history? What would they want if they were in their "right" minds and could answer my question?  I don't know. One thing I  know is that I have to find things to laugh about, or I'd cry a lot. Please, Daddy, forgive me if I'm wrong (You, too Mom).

Our nightly bedtime ritual has included  singing  "Tis love that makes us happy, Tis love that smooths the way. It helps us mind, it keeps us kind, to others every day. God is love. We're His little children. God is love. We would be like Him. Tis love that makes us happy. Tis love that smooths the way. It helps us mind. It keeps us kind, to others every day." Daddy, though you haven't been able to talk, you've been able to sing along until a couple of weeks ago. I remember you singing this when I was a small child. I miss hearing you. I treasure this memory. I can't wait to hear you sing again!

As I think of these past couple of years,  I wonder what more I could have done. How could I have made life easier, more filled with joy? Have I been too busy to just sit and "be" with you? Have I been  too busy with my "important stuff." Sometimes, I think"yes." I'm sorry. I asked you awhile back if you knew I loved you, and you nodded your head. I needed that. Thank you. What did you need?

Anyway, it's late tonight. I must try to sleep. Will you rally again, Daddy? I don't know. It doesn't look like you have the energy. How much longer? A day, week, or even months? I don't know. Hospice will be here tomorrow. I'll see what they say.

Daddy, I really don't want you to leave. I want to hold on and not let you slip away.... I said you were dying. And it's true. I said that part of me is dying, too, and it's true. because you are so much a part of me, or I of you... however it works for  child and parent, or parent and child.  I can hardly bear it. Then I remember. I'm living, as are your other children, and your grandchildren, and their children, and  a host of others whose lives you have touched in the ways that matter. You've loved well, and that ultimately is all that matters. Your legacy lives on. I will love you forever. We'll take care of Mom. It's okay. I'll see you in the Morning. Sleep well.

Sue