By and large, life is good

I imagine most everyone enjoys hearing stories about their mother or father after they have passed away. Particularly if it is something they have not heard prior or something that gives them a pang of nostalgia. It feels as though there is something much more gratifying, almost redeeming, about hearing stories and comments about my Dad from his younger years. The years before he was struck down by his illness; when he was “normal”, full of promise, admired and even revered by some. This probably feels restorative because there was not much left to envy in my Dad’s life at the time of his passing. He lived alone with his dog in a one bedroom subsidized basement apartment that was consistently filled with clouds of smoke. Certain provisions were necessary at all times; chocolate pudding, generic Diet Mountain Dew, Pyramid 100’s, journals and pencils. He was fastidious about his regimen. Outings to simply get groceries could be extremely anxiety provoking. His social circle consisted predominantly of friends that he had met in his apartment building. This worked well because his social anxiety didn't lend to him going out and meeting new people. It had only gotten progressively worse over the years. It became more exhausting to put on a face of “normal”, to guesstimate appropriate body language, fitting facial expressions and suitable small talk. Having friends that would just “stop by” the apartment to share comradery and friendship worked well for his situation. I was truly grateful that he had this support system. As human beings we know the importance of connection and social supports, as a social worker I understood the importance of a support system on a whole different level. It was vital for his survival and he had found something that worked for him. He also had a couple of longtime friends he still spoke to, predominantly on the phone, and family members in varying locations. Several children, grandchildren, cousins, nephews and his sister all stayed in pretty close contact. However, the exchanges we all shared were work for him, they were exhausting. He would tell me about being on the phone with a family member and becoming so anxious he needed to take one of his Klonopin to get through the phone call. He was always thrilled to see me, but probably not too sorry to see me go either. That is the best way I know to describe it.

So, when people from Dad’s past reach out to tell me their memories of him, it is a glimpse into the life of a man I never knew. One of his friends from his high school days wrote to me after his passing. It was a very nice letter describing one of their adventures while living in Estes Park. He ended the letter with “I knew Blaine, I rode with him and I got no complaints.” It was clear they had a special friendship that had eventually drifted apart as many early friendships do, but the word of his death was hard on him. Dad had clearly meant something to him and made an impact on his life, however small it may have been. Another person who donated to the Blaine Goff Memorial Fund left a message “I met your father as a young man. Blaine had an intensity about him, a good intensity. I always enjoyed seeing him.” At some point after Dad’s death his much younger cousin reached out to tell me that she would never forget how special Dad had made her feel the day he married my mom. She was their flower girl and had never forgotten how Dad made her feel that day. Then there were the amusing comments; “I remember drooling at the site of Blaine walking on the sundeck of the City Park Pool in his speedo”. All of these seemingly small comments, brief glimpses, have been huge for me. Shortly after Dad died I put together a memorial website for people to share their condolences and memories in lieu of services per Dad’s request. Several people took the time to write rather lengthy entries that I cherish. I recall being particularly moved by Dad’s cousin Tuck sharing a collection of memories:

“A few days ago, we lost my cousin, Blaine. He was the second child of my generation on my father's side. He was only 59. As kids, we spent quite a lot of time together and those memories always bring smiles. As we grew up, play gave way to exploration, much to our parents' concern, I imagine. Our explorations grew more bold over time – as we often wandered away for the better part of a day. Eventually, exploration graduated to making mischief – which seemed to have been one of Blaine's particular talents. There was playing recklessly among the equipment and livestock feed at his Grandpa Wead's feed store. I will never forget the look on Grandpa Wead's face after that stone, launched from a slingshot landed inside the office near the scale, he standing amid all that glass. I am still not sure if the look on his face was one of astonishment or amusement, but I don't think he was angry. I do know the look on Blaine's face – fear. Blaine was more impulsive than I, and often one thing would lead to another. One exploration I recall, occurred probably in the very early 70's, as I-380 in Iowa was under construction. That night, Blaine and I were out just cruising around in my car. We came upon a road closed sign, where one of the roads severed by the new superhighway, now ended. Beyond, blocking my progress, but calling to Blaine, was the new pavement which would eventually carry millions of cars. My thought: Gotta turn around. Blaine's perspective: “Don't you want to be first?” So, off we went, lights out, down the fresh pavement until it went no further. And you know what? Despite my doubts, it WAS fun. We were first! Over the years, I saw less of Blaine, but when we did get to chat, we ended up talking about books, ideas, what was really important in life – and laughing. He was a reader and a deep thinker. I was fortunate enough to spend a couple of hours with him about a year ago, where we did much of the same. As we were standing outside in the sun, Blaine wrapped up the conversation with “By and large, Tuck, life is good”. In the months since, I have thought of that often when I find myself frustrated by some triviality. I suspect I always will. Here is to you, Cuz. You are right, life IS good.”

I can only hope that Dad is smiling down, finally realizing the impact he had on many lives throughout the years. He never felt his existence mattered when he was alive and he agonized over it while he was dying. It was my main goal while he was in Hospice; to help he realize the various ways his life had made a positive impact. He had once had such high hopes for his life and the things he would accomplish. All of which had been reduced to a very simple, quiet existence that was rounded out by blood draws, medication schedules and visits to the psychiatrist.