It's OK to Talk About Death...

As parents, we all love our kids endlessly, and we celebrate special moments, both together and apart.

Ruth sent me this note about a breakfast we shared that I had almost forgotten. Now that I've read this, that won't happen again.   

Ruth Wrote:

The shiny chrome diner was packed. Dad and I had driven by several other breakfast places downtown, but it being both Sunday and pouring down fat raindrops, it appeared that everyone had the same idea as us: to pile into the car and seek out the refuge of warm place to be served pancakes and eggs benedict. Dad doesn’t like crowds, or waiting, so as we drove by each restaurant and saw the huddled masses standing outside, poking each other in the heads with umbrellas, he would bite the inside of his lip, and shake his head. We finally settled on a spot that didn’t look promising, but to my delight it had a Greek influenced menu and an eager teenage hostess in combat boots sat us quickly. We squeezed past the soggy folks in their Sunday best and slid into a red leatherette booth. Every time the front door opened, we were hit with a strong whiff of wet pavement, that, mixed with the smell of hot coffee in the damp air, was both intoxicating and slightly off putting.

We knew what we were here to talk about, and for a while it remained the elephant in the room as our eyes darted around the menu and we weighed our culinary options. It had been my idea to talk to my dad about death, namely, his and moms. I am someone who likes to plan things out and to know what to do. I was nervous to bring up the topic over the phone a couple weeks prior and almost chickened out. My dad and I are so similar we have somewhat of an internal ESP system, knowing exactly how the other will react, what they will say, almost as if you were talking to yourself (and answering). But I was surprised when he responded joyfully with, “Yes! We should talk about that! I’m very comfortable talking about what I would like to happen after I’m gone.” Well, I wasn’t, but I rode his wave of optimism and replied “Great!”

A perky but clearly stressed out waitress filled our mugs with steaming black java and scribbled our orders on a ratty notepad. Then my dad looked at me and said, “So lets talk, honey”. For a moment I felt a tickle in my throat. But another thing my dad and I have in common is our dislike/fear of public crying. I had seen my dad cry exactly once in my life. That was when I said goodbye to him when I moved to Orlando at age 19. (He needn’t have worried as I lasted all of about 3 months before I was back and living with them), the next time I moved out (for real that time) there were no tears, quite the opposite as he all but hired a marching band and rolled out a red carpet to see me off). And so, I swallowed and… we talked. For the next two hours we talked: about death, about life, about dreams realized and not. I don’t remember if my food was good, I believe it was, because all I could think about was this moment, this rainy day in this diner, talking to this man. I sealed the moment away, knowing I would always remember it.

A bit later the perky waitress appeared, her nerves calmer, her demeanor smooth, and asked us “Would you two like some more coffee? Would you like to stay here a while before heading out into the weather?”

Without looking at each other, we nodded. We would.