My sweet Papa has gone to heaven

Got word this morning that my father was taken to the hospital after falling at home trying to go to the bathroom. A few hours later he was gone. His candle was slowly going out lately, and this morning he developed pneumonia/bronchitis, ran a high fever, was delirious.

After a few hours at the hospital Mom and my sister went downstairs for a little break, while the staff could clean him up and change him and move him to a private room. A nurse came to get them, and by the time they reached his room he was gone.

We all expected my father to leave this earth for the past few months now as he kept becoming quieter, lost interest in things. It always comes as a surprise, you're just not prepared for it.
I had not seen him in two years, be we spoke on the phone every week. The last time being Sunday. I never knew how big of an effort it was for him to psyche himself up to come to the phone and try to sound like his old jolly self. Mom told me he would be exhausted afterward.

We are so grateful he did not suffer, or linger with tubes and needles and whatnot.

What a way to go, and what a life.

I am glad I spoke with him past Sunday.

Good night papa.

Here is a piece I initially wrote a few years ago, and then repeated it again last year.

Well, here it is, one more time:

My very earliest memories of my father was when I was about 4 or 5. We were visiting old friends of mom and dad's, and their children (I vaguely remember there being two girls, older than myself) were playing some sort of new board game with my father. When he lost, I felt horrible for him. Not really embarrassed, but just felt he should have won from these girls. After all, my father was God in my eyes, he could do anything!

Most of my childhood's memories are to be found in the many photo albums I have laying around.And lately, I often I sit and visit these albums. I use a magnifying glass, as the old pictures are very tiny, and I've discovered that when you use a magnifying glass, you can see the facial expressions and other goodies otherwise not visible.I also found that if you concentrated on those pictures long enough your memories would come flooding back.True! Try it sometimes!We had a pretty extensive family. Both on my mother's side, and on my father's side. There were tons of cousins, aunts, uncles, no grandmas, but two grandpas. Many family visits, birthday celebrations, and yes, funerals, of course.My brothers, sister and I had a very happy and carefree childhood.

My parents were the perfect couple, devout Catholics, mom was the homemaker, papa was the breadwinner.Simple as that.And they adored each other, they still do.I can't speak for my siblings, but I never in my entire life saw or heard them fight, or squabble.They did not curse, they did not raise their voices.

Mom kept the house in spic-span shape, papa made sure things got fixed, and together they raised the four of us, seemingly effortless.The four of us were allowed to be children, we wore great clothes (for a great deal made by mom, she was a terrific seamstress), always looked clean and fresh (she used hair gel on the boys, which made them look a tad starched, but VERY tidy)She had her cleaning/housekeeping ritual, which in later years made me rebel and drive me insane! *S*

But I digress...In his younger days my father was a very handsome fellow. (He still is of course) He was strong, he was athletic, he was very good looking, had pitch black wavy hair, and he drove a huge motor bike for his job.He wore a funny looking hat/helmet and a long black leather coat and had huge leather mittens.He was a telephone repair person in the days when telephones were still a luxury, and not everyone had one.He was always involved in sports. Gave swimming lessons, coached and played soccer (he was a goalie), sailed, walked the "Vierdaagse" a few times.check it out if you're interested:

http://walking.about.com/library/weekly/aa072799.htm

Besides his job, he was the quintessential "daddy knows best." He knew how to fix anything. His motto was: if I can't fix it, it can't be fixed." He built toys for us, sturdy ones, from solid wood, I mean, some of the trucks he made for the boys could do some damage IF you had been able to actually pick it up and throw it through the room!He was extremely artistic as well. Could draw a portrait with a pencil made to look like the actual photograph.

He was also very musical. He taught me how to play the guitar, and gave me the gift of love for classical music, albeit operetta and cowboy music, it was a start. He still hauls out his harmonica every chance he gets and serenades everyone who will stand still long enough.

He made us all bicycles from scratch, would go around on garbage day and haul parts home. He even detailed them with fine gold lines and whirly decorations. They always looked like they came from the regular bike factory. He found old broken clocks and made them new again, TV's, radios, you name it! (However, when he came home once with parts of a baby grand piano, mom drew the line *lol*)When I was 5 or so, he made me a beautiful doll house. It had an electric doorbell, a fireplace that lit up, Mom made little curtains, small rugs, they made furniture, it was a real gem.Unfortunately I was a rather destructive child and this pretty house was destroyed in a matter of days. The empty dollhouse sat on a basement shelf for years after that, they didn't have the heart to throw it away.I don't remember being punished for it, I probably was, but I just don't recall.Of course thinking back now, it brings tears to my eyes, and guilt...SOoooo much guilt!

We went on vacation pretty much every year. In Holland at that time every guild or group of workers would get the same two weeks vacation. All the construction workers went at the same time, etc etc.My parents would rent a bungalow somewhere inland. In the early years we would take a bus. The bus picked up families all over Den Haag and took us all to the location of the Bungalow Park.Our stuff would be transported by truck.

My mom had a wooden crate they used as a trunk. It would have our clothes, linens, food, games, books, and the box of snacks. It took her weeks to fill it up, everything clean and pressed, of course.The weeks out in the woods were always wonderful. Considering the whole country would fit inside the State of Georgia about 13 times, you can imagine we really didn't GO very far, but to us it was like going to the other side of the world.Driving on the freeway alone gave us the thrill of feeling we were going somewhere far far away.

When my dad got his drivers license, we would rent a car for our vacation. He always rented an Opel, four door sedan. Boy, did we feel rich! I was always so damn proud of my dad, he looked SO important (and hot!) driving that big car!!When I became a teenager (I was/am the oldest) my parents ran into some resistance from me.Being the oldest in a catholic household meant you had to "go through" everything first.

And being the rebel I was, it was tough going. I'm talking about non-catholic boyfriends; refusing to go to church, wanting a job instead of finishing high school, etc etc.My father though stayed his calm old self. I could always count on him for support. My mom would just simply freak out *S*

One of my fondest memories of my father was the time that I was going on my very first date.I made a date with a boy I worked with, and became my first really BIG love. We were to meet in Scheveningen, on the Boulevard, and go see the fireworks.I don't remember how I got there, probably took the tram.I walked along the Boulevard a few times, but no boyfriend...nowhere to be seen.Aw nuts!As I walked back and forth I felt someone watching me from the street above. I looked up and there was my father, on his motor bike. With a grin on his face. (He had these lopsided grins)Where are you supposed to meet? he asked...At the Shooting Gallery, I replied.....He laughed!!Well kiddo, you're on the wrong side!!!.......Geesh!I ran towards back to where the Shooting Gallery was and low and behold, there was my boyfriend, on his Puch motor bike. *S*As we walked back together, my dad was still there, grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head.I felt extremely grateful, and so safe. And so relieved.

Not until I had kids of my own did I understand the anxiety you go through as a parent of a teenager. The way they can just scare the daylights out of you, make you worry yourself into a tizzy, hurt you by their selfish and silly acts.I hope my father knows that he did a fabulous job raising us.Even in old age, he never forgets to send us a check around Christmas time (we jokingly call it our "zakgeld"; allowance.

He is still being Papa, he will always be the responsible and loving father.Ever since his health started declining about ten years ago, I've been thinking of what I would say at his funeral.I can never get past the first sentence:"Today we say goodbye to the sweetest man in the world....."I really hope we will have him around for a little while longer, especially now, when we all appreciate and love him so much more....It's really a shame that it sometimes takes a lifetime to understand what your parents meant to you, how well of a job they really did of raising you.Thanks mom and dad!I love you both, very much!

SGMKJ!