Out of the Mouths of Babes

What could be worse than subjecting a kid who just lost a parent to the nightly ritual of condolence calls? Not much, I'm guessing.

My son's good friend's dad passed away suddenly last Sunday. Dropped dead, really, in the truest sense of the word. Without saying goodbye, or, sadder still, without giving anyone else the opportunity to do the same. If terminal illness has any up side, that would be it. Plenty of chances for goodbyes and reflection. Preparation and readiness? If you ask me, that's a myth. No child, no matter what his age, is adequately prepared for the moment at which life is supposed to continue without the person who gave him life, who raised him, who was just always viewed as a given.

My son's friend is putting on a brave face, smiling and accepting well intentioned hugs from all the consolers and grievers passing through. They share stories with him, their memories of time spent with his dad. He has spent more time with the man than all of them put together, yet, unlike them, he is still unable to retrieve and hang on to the funny little anecdotes. For him, there is one memory that haunts him -- his last phone call with his dad on the day he died. "Don't forget to get me the charger." Those, he told my son, were his parting words to his father, his goodbye.

I had the dubious good fortune of yelling "I love you" into my father's ear over the telephone as he lay dying. Yes, I took some comfort in that, knowing that as he passed from this world he would take with him that reminder. Had the timing been different, though, his final memory of me would likely have been of watching me leave hours earlier, hearing me consoling my mother at the door as I headed home to Chicago. Our own version of don't forget to get me the charger. No affirmations of love. No articulation of how I felt, how losing him made me feel as if my legs were being cut off at the knees.

No matter how many times my son reassures his friend that one final sentence at the end of a routine conversation nobody knew would be the last does not in any way define a lifelong relationship, he knows his friend will struggle with the memory for a while. Who wouldn't? But he will get past it, especially when he becomes a parent. When he experiences first hand the kind of unconditional love a parent feels for a child, the little person who explodes into the world making demands and never really stops doing so. When he can know, finally, how the mere sound of a child's voice, or, in truth, the mere thought of him, can make life seem complete.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if my kids' parting comments to me included some kind of request and a gratuitous grunt. But I hope when I go, as they endure the funny stories of others, they will know that whatever they last said to me will have been, to me, the sweetest words of all.