April 30, 2018
Dad bought a 1966 Ford Mustang when we first moved back to Florida around 1983 and was to become his toy, his hobby, his passion, his project … well you get the idea it was his. Despite all the health hurdles he was challenged with, this car in his mind would be fully restored to its original 1966 luster. At his passing the entire engine was rebuilt to pristine condition and now most importantly required major body work and interior repair. The car remained a steadfast reminder of Dad’s favorite Hungarian line, “majd” (pronounced like I’D but with a “m” preceding it), which translated would be, later with no specified time reference other than on his terms and time frame. His need for precision to have things done not “half-fast” or “sloppy” often would often bring projects to a grinding halt and eventually the project would be indefinitely left incomplete.
Though time has continued to move further away from Dad’s passing in November 2016, the anniversary of his passing has not, nor have the memories or days of significance. Some days it seems like it was yesterday when it’s been over a year, but not quite two years. The loss of Dad was surreal at first and then through a disheveled climb through the five stages of grief, DABDA, as described by the Kübler-Ross model. The disheveled climb also saw a distinct hairline separation amongst the five stages, but for the most part it remained blurred as I struggled through the stages. There apparently is no logical order to follow, nor is it uncommon to move from one to another, skip over some for the time being and return to others multiple times, especially when letting go of Dad’s final possessions.
I probably bounced back and forth in denial for the longest time. Even when Dad’s health was declining towards the end, I always thought he would eventually rebound from his latest health crisis. He fought the fight and overcame cancers, strokes, seizures, kidney failure but in the end he wanted “up” as he uttered his last words. Mom and I understood it was he wanted “up” as in to let him go to heaven and once we let him know he can go, he silently slipped away. It was then I realized he isn’t going to fight one more health crisis, despite my wishing he would once again recover as he did so many times before. For the next several months, I kept denying to myself he’s gone. I was hoping to see him at his house in his recliner, sitting there; stopping to get a burger at his favorite burger place; or picking up the phone to talk to him and the many other instances where I was slapped into an instant reality that I that I would not see him again.
There are times I lapse into a daydream when I open the kitchen door to the garage. I vision Dad having completely restored the Mustang to its original luster, went for a drive around town, to only pull up as I blink back into reality and return to seeing the emptiness of the garage. I do wonder, what it would have been like if Dad never have gotten sick and was able to fully enjoy his golden years restoring the car, still enjoying tinkering around in the garage or even at his beloved cottage in Muskoka. All these “what if’s” leave me filled with nostalgia and thinking he’s really not gone, he’s just in another room.
Anger was not one of those feelings I had, I was proud to have had Dad in my life for almost 47 years. Watching how courageously he fought each health crisis adamantly with vigor of a man many years younger always left me in awe and looked up to him as one of my heroes, that just happened to be my Dad. There was not a moment I recall being angry that disease tried to steal years from him on Earth.
There was a sense of ambivalence in clearing belongings, as it forces facing reality of how close one is to writing the final chapter of life. The only resentment of his passing is that he left Mom and I to make the hard decisions on his years of his collecting a garage and an outdoor storage shed filled with equipment, tools, supplies and other automobile related novelties. Whether to give it away, discard it or donate it, we managed to do a combination of all three, and still in the process of going through the last of his belongings, one-by-one not really knowing the reasoning why it stood the test of time and caused unjustifiable awkwardness.
When the time came for Dad needing greater care than Mom nor I could provide, we were left with no real alternative than assisted living. I began bargaining to find ways to prevent the inevitable of trusting someone other than us to provide the care he needs, as good if not better than we could possibly offer him. My mind kept rolling endlessly day and night and contemplated the options take time off from work to better help Mom or find someone for in-home care but not turn to strangers to help in an unfamiliar home.
The decision to give away, discard it or donate his items sometimes conflicted as if we should keep certain items with no understanding why would we or what is that for, other than a memory tied to it. Several treasured items were kept as memory keepers, often items which had a story to share.
I only encountered short periods of depression, mostly when Dad received another diagnosis, in which he would always tell me to “pull myself together, head up” to remain positive and strong. It appeared easy for me to remain strong, when he himself exhibited his own determination to defeat and overcome the health demons thrown at him. Despite what appeared on the outside, inside I often felt stranded on my own island, by my own doing. I was able to share my feelings, my experiences and my fears without difficulty to my closest friends but remained strong, stoic and unaffected around my own family. Many times I would withdraw into a whirlwind world of my own solitude as my closest friends became attached to a significant others and/or moved away to cities more than a day’s drive away.
Even towards the end, Dad didn’t want to let go, he always wanted to live, “to 100” he’d always exclaim despite all the health hurdles thrown at him. Perhaps, he realized he still had a lot of unfinished business left in his terrestrial life that he wouldn’t be able to take with him once he closed his final chapter and finishing anyone project was his way to convince himself that he will live to 100.
After Mom and I told Dad, it was “OK” for him to “let go and stop fighting”, an immediate acceptance of him being at peace overcame me as he peacefully slipped away. As hard as it was to let go, he did so on his terms with his wishes fully honored. I often look back to that being one of the most difficult days I faced in my life, yet it was the day my father who saw me become a man that day. I am not saying its been easy, but I am comforted knowing he’s in a better place and out of pain.
With his passing on Thanksgiving Day 2016, I was left with major days of significance to handle over the next few months with days filled with his vacated voice missing, nostalgic memories and emotions still raw. Notwithstanding, I’ve been through the five stages of grief; some stages were lengthier than others, some were less dramatic and others just seemed to remain fluid throughout the process and often the cycle repeats itself, as you don’t get over losing someone as much as passing time just fills voids with cherished memories. I found letting go, even if there is a second go around in the grieving process, can heal you if you put your arms down and allow yourself to be vulnerable and comforted by those who care the most about you.
When Mom and I finalized going through the garage meticulously searching and guessing for what could possibly be parts for the car, we began to pack it into the car, a myriad of emotions of sadness, humor and melancholy overcame us both. April 17, 1964, the Ford Mustang made its debut at the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, New York. Ironically, the same day, 55 years later, in 2018, Dad’s beloved 1966 Ford Mustang was picked up to be prepared to be transported to Siofok, Hungary. A part of Dad will live on in his homeland, not too far from his birthplace, as his nephews will restore the vehicle to its original shine and splendor. With pride it will be placed on display in their own Ford dealership as a lasting legacy for my Dad.
As the flatbed tow truck with the fully loaded Mustang gradually pull out of the driveway and taking a left on to the street, I thought I saw Dad, smiling and waving from the driver’s seat, it was then I realized this reopened up the entire five stages of grief as described by the Kübler-Ross model of DABDA in ways least expected. I thought I’d be relieved to see the car leave our hands and be sent on its way to its new home, but letting go, once again, allowed me to move forward in time. It allowed me to say farewell once again and allowed me to accept I will see Dad again, “majd”, not today, not tomorrow, but later.
Though time has continued to move further away from Dad’s passing in November 2016, the anniversary of his passing has not, nor have the memories or days of significance. Some days it seems like it was yesterday when it’s been over a year, but not quite two years. The loss of Dad was surreal at first and then through a disheveled climb through the five stages of grief, DABDA, as described by the Kübler-Ross model. The disheveled climb also saw a distinct hairline separation amongst the five stages, but for the most part it remained blurred as I struggled through the stages. There apparently is no logical order to follow, nor is it uncommon to move from one to another, skip over some for the time being and return to others multiple times, especially when letting go of Dad’s final possessions.
I probably bounced back and forth in denial for the longest time. Even when Dad’s health was declining towards the end, I always thought he would eventually rebound from his latest health crisis. He fought the fight and overcame cancers, strokes, seizures, kidney failure but in the end he wanted “up” as he uttered his last words. Mom and I understood it was he wanted “up” as in to let him go to heaven and once we let him know he can go, he silently slipped away. It was then I realized he isn’t going to fight one more health crisis, despite my wishing he would once again recover as he did so many times before. For the next several months, I kept denying to myself he’s gone. I was hoping to see him at his house in his recliner, sitting there; stopping to get a burger at his favorite burger place; or picking up the phone to talk to him and the many other instances where I was slapped into an instant reality that I that I would not see him again.
There are times I lapse into a daydream when I open the kitchen door to the garage. I vision Dad having completely restored the Mustang to its original luster, went for a drive around town, to only pull up as I blink back into reality and return to seeing the emptiness of the garage. I do wonder, what it would have been like if Dad never have gotten sick and was able to fully enjoy his golden years restoring the car, still enjoying tinkering around in the garage or even at his beloved cottage in Muskoka. All these “what if’s” leave me filled with nostalgia and thinking he’s really not gone, he’s just in another room.
Anger was not one of those feelings I had, I was proud to have had Dad in my life for almost 47 years. Watching how courageously he fought each health crisis adamantly with vigor of a man many years younger always left me in awe and looked up to him as one of my heroes, that just happened to be my Dad. There was not a moment I recall being angry that disease tried to steal years from him on Earth.
There was a sense of ambivalence in clearing belongings, as it forces facing reality of how close one is to writing the final chapter of life. The only resentment of his passing is that he left Mom and I to make the hard decisions on his years of his collecting a garage and an outdoor storage shed filled with equipment, tools, supplies and other automobile related novelties. Whether to give it away, discard it or donate it, we managed to do a combination of all three, and still in the process of going through the last of his belongings, one-by-one not really knowing the reasoning why it stood the test of time and caused unjustifiable awkwardness.
When the time came for Dad needing greater care than Mom nor I could provide, we were left with no real alternative than assisted living. I began bargaining to find ways to prevent the inevitable of trusting someone other than us to provide the care he needs, as good if not better than we could possibly offer him. My mind kept rolling endlessly day and night and contemplated the options take time off from work to better help Mom or find someone for in-home care but not turn to strangers to help in an unfamiliar home.
The decision to give away, discard it or donate his items sometimes conflicted as if we should keep certain items with no understanding why would we or what is that for, other than a memory tied to it. Several treasured items were kept as memory keepers, often items which had a story to share.
I only encountered short periods of depression, mostly when Dad received another diagnosis, in which he would always tell me to “pull myself together, head up” to remain positive and strong. It appeared easy for me to remain strong, when he himself exhibited his own determination to defeat and overcome the health demons thrown at him. Despite what appeared on the outside, inside I often felt stranded on my own island, by my own doing. I was able to share my feelings, my experiences and my fears without difficulty to my closest friends but remained strong, stoic and unaffected around my own family. Many times I would withdraw into a whirlwind world of my own solitude as my closest friends became attached to a significant others and/or moved away to cities more than a day’s drive away.
Even towards the end, Dad didn’t want to let go, he always wanted to live, “to 100” he’d always exclaim despite all the health hurdles thrown at him. Perhaps, he realized he still had a lot of unfinished business left in his terrestrial life that he wouldn’t be able to take with him once he closed his final chapter and finishing anyone project was his way to convince himself that he will live to 100.
After Mom and I told Dad, it was “OK” for him to “let go and stop fighting”, an immediate acceptance of him being at peace overcame me as he peacefully slipped away. As hard as it was to let go, he did so on his terms with his wishes fully honored. I often look back to that being one of the most difficult days I faced in my life, yet it was the day my father who saw me become a man that day. I am not saying its been easy, but I am comforted knowing he’s in a better place and out of pain.
With his passing on Thanksgiving Day 2016, I was left with major days of significance to handle over the next few months with days filled with his vacated voice missing, nostalgic memories and emotions still raw. Notwithstanding, I’ve been through the five stages of grief; some stages were lengthier than others, some were less dramatic and others just seemed to remain fluid throughout the process and often the cycle repeats itself, as you don’t get over losing someone as much as passing time just fills voids with cherished memories. I found letting go, even if there is a second go around in the grieving process, can heal you if you put your arms down and allow yourself to be vulnerable and comforted by those who care the most about you.
When Mom and I finalized going through the garage meticulously searching and guessing for what could possibly be parts for the car, we began to pack it into the car, a myriad of emotions of sadness, humor and melancholy overcame us both. April 17, 1964, the Ford Mustang made its debut at the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, New York. Ironically, the same day, 55 years later, in 2018, Dad’s beloved 1966 Ford Mustang was picked up to be prepared to be transported to Siofok, Hungary. A part of Dad will live on in his homeland, not too far from his birthplace, as his nephews will restore the vehicle to its original shine and splendor. With pride it will be placed on display in their own Ford dealership as a lasting legacy for my Dad.
As the flatbed tow truck with the fully loaded Mustang gradually pull out of the driveway and taking a left on to the street, I thought I saw Dad, smiling and waving from the driver’s seat, it was then I realized this reopened up the entire five stages of grief as described by the Kübler-Ross model of DABDA in ways least expected. I thought I’d be relieved to see the car leave our hands and be sent on its way to its new home, but letting go, once again, allowed me to move forward in time. It allowed me to say farewell once again and allowed me to accept I will see Dad again, “majd”, not today, not tomorrow, but later.
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