My pa

Some of you know that my dad passed away this year in May. The reason I bring this up is because he is pretty much responsible for the skills I have and need to build this truck into what it's going to be. Every time I work on it I think of him at least once and wonder if he can see me and what he might make of this whole thing.

My dad worked for Martin Marietta (a subcontractor of NASA) as a logistics engineer designing systems for electrical, plumbing and the like. He had a shop in the garage at home that he used to tinker in and he built furniture and cars and repaired everything in the house (usually with at least a little bit of epoxy in it). He didn't get a son so I think I was recruited as the proxy-- my years growing up were spent in the garage helping him build and fix all kinds of stuff.

He lost half a leg during WWII, had a few heart attacks and was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 1989. For the last few years he has been fading.

My sister called and said my dad was in the hospital so I went down to California. He wasn't aware of his surroundings or us but seemed stable so after a few days I went back home. I was back in Seattle for two days and then my sister called me again. I flew back and this time seemed like it was it. Thankfully, he had signed a Do Not Resuscitate form so he had all IVs and tubes removed and was only on oxygen and morphine ("comfort care").

For seven nights I sat with him, all night, for 16+ hours each time. I would hold his hand and sometimes talk to him. He never came out of his near-coma. We got him a private room with a view of San Luis Peak after the first couple of days which was nice. My stepbrother's daughter got us a little stuffed walrus which became the mascot-- we set him on my dad's chest and I would look for it going slowly up and down when he breathed. He was pretty calm.

On the eighth night I didn't think I could do it any more-- I was exhausted. I showed up at about 4pm-- my sister had gotten the good idea to bring in a boom box with old jazz on it so I put that on. "Heaven" by Irving Berlin will always remind me of that time. My sister showed up after work around 5pm and it was just the two of us. It was sunset, on the last day of May, and I was holding his hand with the music playing. We started talking about the afterlife and our beliefs. Then I looked over at him-- his breath had stopped and I put my head on his chest. Nothing. I told my sister to get the nurse.

They let us sit there with him as long as we wanted to, which was about an hour and a half. Finally, the man from the mortuary came in and we had to go. I think the hardest part was walking away.