Anjali Budreski
About a year ago, my mom suffered a minor stroke. She was planting flowers one moment, and in the next awoke on the pavement with her neighbors standing over her. She ended up in the hospital and was lucky to be okay.
When I heard the news, I called my dad. True to form, Mom was in the hospital having had a scary health issue and Dad was sitting outside in the sun at a restaurant near the hospital, completely ensconced in his lunch. Worriedly, I proclaimed: “Dad, is Mom okay??!!” He paused (chewing), told me how delectable his meal was, and then said: “Oh, Mom. I think she’s going to be okay!” There was not a hint of worry in his voice, only love and assurance.
In the most beautiful way, Dad trusted life and he really LOVED food. To him, it was a sacrament. No need to skip a meal just because Mom was in the hospital! Why not enjoy the spring day, the sunshine, and his favorite falafel sandwich?
This past summer, my parents were packing up to move on to a brand-new chapter, selling their sweet home on Cape Cod and downsizing to an independent living facility. On one particular trip south to help them, there were only a few weeks until closing on two homes with a LOT of work to do. While Mom and I created a whirlwind of activity around him, I found Dad, a relaxed look on his face, napping in the den amidst the boxes and packing tape.
Dad never made it to their new home. He passed away peacefully and unexpectedly about one week before moving day. I don’t think Dad wanted to leave his happy place — his gardens and beloved freshwater pond, where he would sit on a bench at the water’s edge and watch neighborhood kids swimming while chatting with summer renters.
Dad never exuded a sense of urgency. Yes, he was passionate, motivated, and enthusiastic about life, but he was never in a rush. Dad could spend two hours relishing each bite of a turkey sandwich while the rest of us had whisked all the dishes off the table and were on to other things. I would listen to him bantering with friends on the phone for hours, a pastime he adored. I always loved this about my dad — savoring the heck out of life.
Losing Dad has been the hardest passage in my life thus far. I take solace in remembering all the time we spent together cooking in the kitchen, enjoying the beaches and marshes of the Lower Cape, and, as kids, exploring all of New England. Our childhood was spent freezing our buns off on virtually every ski mountain in New Hampshire and Maine. Dad would ski in dungarees (a.k.a. jeans) with no long underwear underneath them. Those were the days!
Dad didn’t care much about the gear or most material things in general. His main priority was that we were all having fun, living our best and most joyful lives and being kind to one another. And of course he always wanted Mom (the most beloved person in his life) to be happy too.
Dad and I had a wonderful, although not always easy, relationship. I remember as a teenager throwing a rake at him because I was REALLY mad about … something. He didn’t always understand my alternative lifestyle and choices. Yet, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew he loved me with his whole heart. Every time he called, he wanted to know how I was, and not just in a surface kind of way. He really wanted to know if I was happy, okay, and thriving.
The most difficult thing about losing my dad is the feeling that it is unreal — that he is not truly gone and that I will see him again in just a few days or weeks. And maybe that’s the beautiful thing. When someone has been such a positive and integral part of your life, it doesn’t feel possible that he is really gone.
Here’s the thing: Perhaps he is not gone at all. Your loved ones live on through you and with you, in every meal savored and every mountain climbed. My dad lives on in the song of the cardinal and the beauty of a snowstorm. He lives on in breathtaking Cape Cod sunsets and in all the family traditions that I vow to carry forward.
He IS here and his spirit feels very much ALIVE. I will hold onto that as the most sacred and precious gift from Dad.
