My dad’s funeral will be Friday, July 16th, at 11 AM. Viewing at 10 AM. It will take place at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Corvallis, Oregon. All are welcome.
—
When I was 14, we had to put down our family cat Roger. My mom and sister were out of town, and so my dad and I had to go to the veterinarian ourselves alone. Roger had been a beast of a cat — over 20 pounds, and constantly prowling the neighborhood. I knew he was really dead when I saw another cat in our yard.
Roger died quickly. He had lost a bit of his edge in the month or so before his death, and then one day he could not stand up. He kept going into corners and facing into them, motionless. I don’t know if he forgot where his water dish was, or if the other end of our 1,500-square-foot house was too far away, but one of my last images of him is of this big black cat sliding around on the edge of the bathroom sink, unable to gain his footing as he tried to lap up whatever water was left in the basin.
It was his time.
My dad and I drove Roger to the veterinarian, and we sat in the room as a nice, 40-something woman injected him with what would be the last thing to enter his body. He looked peaceful. He looked tired. He looked relieved.
My dad cried. I guess I had seen him cry more than three times. I guess it was four.
When my mom and sister got home from wherever they were, they wanted to get new cats. My dad didn’t. His reasoning was simple: They are a lot of work, and we would just be signing on for more pain and loss down the line. Surely, they would die before we did.
Soon thereafter, my sister walked in the house with Costello, a white-orange rescue cat. My dad was pissed. A few days after that, she walked in with Abbott — another rescue, tuxedoed and runt-ish.
Months and years later, after my dad had become entirely enamored with our two rescue cats, he would still often joke that owning pets is a silly thing to do: Why become super attached to this domesticated animal that will die and cause you pain? When he would make this somewhat maudlin comment, the two of us would occasionally joke, “Isn’t that just what all of life is? Trying to find joy that will, almost surely, precede even sharper pain?” Isn’t the preceding joy still worth it?
The joy that I experienced with my dad — the fact that I always felt like the luckiest kid in the world, the fact that I could laugh with him, learn from him, experience things with him like with no one else — is the cause of the pain I feel now. But that doesn’t mean I can opt out of the possibility of future joys, nor does it mean I should lament just how joyous the good times were. To borrow from a childhood friend of my dad who I spoke to today, “The depths of your pain are because of the heights that the two of you reached.”
—
My dad loved going out to eat with his family. Growing up, he didn’t go to a restaurant until he was 12 years old — after his First Communion. I remember him telling me that when he went, he filled up entirely on dinner rolls and could hardly eat anything for the rest of the meal. He couldn’t believe they just kept bringing them out.
My dad liked cheap, somewhat divey places. He didn’t like places with table cloths, and he didn’t like places that sold wine. One of his favorite places to go was a Mexican restaurant in a small strip in Corvallis called Taqueria Alonzo. He would get a vegetarian chimichanga (or as he described it, The Torpedo), and eat it as fast as he could. My dad worked at a meat factory through all of high school and into college, and to him, this bean-and-cheese beast was the pinnacle of culinary excellence.
My paternal grandmother died on Cinco de Mayo in 2015. So, every year for the past six years, we would go out for Mexican food on May 5th. He loved doing that — honoring his mother by devouring an almost unfathomable amount of food. “I have to do it. It’s a legacy of the Irish Potato Famine.”
I didn’t take a picture this year on May 5th, but here’s one I took a few weeks later when my dad and I were at Taqueria Alonzo:
The day my dad died, I received this text from my friend Hunter: “Always amazed me how much you and your dad loved spending time together over the most basic shit. Not being able to hang with us cause you were getting a soda with your dad was in your BAG.”
The way my dad died was so dramatic, so traumatizing, so sudden. But the things I enjoyed most about his life were so simple, so calming, so routine. He was a man who was larger than life, but best in the smallest of moments.
Duality.
There are plenty of quotes I’ll pick up when I’m able to start reading again, but I’m thinking here of something along the lines of: Love is when the smallest moments are entirely immersive; when another person’s mere presence is entirely enough.
Take any activity, add my dad, and enjoy.
Maybe that’s why substances are so appealing when someone you love dies. Because the possibility of being able to appreciate any given moment, no matter how mundane, drifts away. And you’re left with a void where their presence was. And that void is where joy used to be.
Maybe the quotation I’m trying to think of, that isn’t trite, is: What is Taqueria Alonzo without my dad?
I guess the project now is to try and find things and people that can bring joy into that void that my dad so filled for my entire life. That’s the daily choice, that’s the daily effort.
This is all I’ve got today. Pretty numb, but probably a little better.
One of my favorite memories with your dad is at Taqueria Alonzo in Corvallis. I took classes with Mike for 5 years at OSU, and ultimately in 2015/16 he was my advisor as he oversaw all the high school language arts and social studies student teachers. Before our last class spring term he asked us to brainstorm how we would like to end our time together. I replied that we should go out to eat together, “break bread” if you will. He agreed, but insisted we go to Taqueria Alonzo so he could get the vegetarian chimichanga. Our tiny cohort had the best time that day, and I insisted before he left we take a picture-I knew how much Mike meant to me, and I was sure my classmates felt the same way. We wanted to remember this moment and the man who inspired us to be the best possible teachers we could be—passionate, caring, good listeners. I printed out that picture in my first week of teaching, and it has remained in my classroom on my file cabinet next to my desk for the last six years. My juniors and seniors often ask me who the people in that picture are, and many times I’ve been able to explain Mike is the professor I try to model myself after. He is my “teacher goals”. When I asked to take the picture that day your dad of course jokingly grumbled, but when I came back in the following years to speak in one of his classes, I gave him a copy. His face lit up and he looked up at me and said, “damn….that was a good chimichanga”.
I think of your family often. There are no words to heal the pain, but something that has helped me through the immense heartbreak of losing my sister this year is knowing that my pain is a direct result of the love we shared. On bad days it makes me even more sad and angry that our love is gone or forever changed, but on good days, I am so thankful for what we shared. He is such a big part of you. Big hugs to your family.
What wonderful & amazing memories you have with your dad. You should feel very blessed to of had this time with him. Cherish every moment you have remembered. You are such a loving and intelligent young man, just like your father. You have a wonderful life ahead of you. Love you Emmett. ❤️