Larger Than Life..

I’ve written about him many times before. He was the most influential man in my young life. He taught me the meaning of unconditional love. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me to laugh. And he comforted me when I cried.

He was a Marine. For the first five or so years of my life, I thought I was a Marine, too. When we were out somewhere, in a crowd, if I looked up and saw that he had his fist in the air, making a circular motion, it meant come quickly. Often, when he and I went somewhere, he let me call cadence…

Ah One Hup Louie, Hup Louie Riley Oh Lee Oh, Riley Oh..

Or something like that. It was fun and I was only four. My little friends could sing the alphabet song, I sang the Marine Corps Hymn. I knew the alphabet, but I preferred to wail out “From the halls of Montezuma….”

He taught me to tie my shoes. He let me sit on the counter in the bathroom and watch him while he shaved. I was always fascinated by the “jingle” of his pockets, so one day, I “borrowed” nails from his tool box so my overall pockets would jingle, too.

When I was little, he was larger than life. He was the smartest man in the whole wide world and the kindest, too. He could perform magic, and I’ve written about that, too.

Somehow, when I was a teenager, he managed to retain his intelligence. In fact, he passed some of his wisdom on to me. I wrote many papers about subjects that we discussed at the supper table.

But right now, I am thinking about the end. He had been on a ventilator for more than two weeks and was being hemodialyzed, too. I tried to be just his daughter but, somehow, I ended up being his primary nurse, too.

On that last day, as I looked at him, I only saw a shadow of the man who was larger than life to me for so many years. Frail, pale, unresponsive, unable to breathe on his own, he was slipping away from me.

Selfishly, I wanted to beg him to stay with me a little longer. Instinctively, I knew he was already gone. I bent over his bed, kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear:

You can go now, I will be okay. I love you, Daddy.