STORYLINE Dad's Notepad

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Dad's Notepad

by Candace Taylor, published on October 23, 2009 at 5:37 PM

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Sacramento, CA--This month marks the fourth year of my father’s death. Dad was so caught up in the day-to-day particulars of his suburban North Sac life and as a caregiver to my Mother, I think at times he actually forgot to enjoy it.

 

The day after he passed, I was searching his home office, drowning in grief and looking for something (anything) to comfort me. I spied Dad’s small spiral bound note pad with his pen resting at a jaunty angle on top of the page. There was a long "To Do" list scribbled in ink—bills to pay, errands to run, and fix-it projects around the house. Just five days prior, he had renewed his October subscription to National Geographic and his AARP membership.

 

At 83, battling throat cancer and a nursing a patched up heart, he was still heavily invested in living life and planning for his future.

 

Then, it hit me like a sledgehammer: None of those things on the note pad mattered anymore. Poof! The laundry list of projects vanished the moment his soul took flight. At precisely which point did I understand that it didn’t really matter how many minutes it took to water the lawn, or how much chlorine the pool required, or which day to pick up his prescription? Gone, in an instant. No more lists for Dad.

 

Hours later, still glued to his office chair while watching storm clouds gathering at dusk, I lightly traced his spidery script with my fingertips, and felt the loss of all those little, sometimes inconsequential things we take for granted. But in the final analysis, those mundane projects had mattered a great deal to him—they were the detailed notes of a life in the process of living, of running to the grocery store for eggs and orange juice, paying monthly bills, or remembering to send a birthday card to one of his four daughters.

 

I kept that list—buried in the back of my office filing cabinet. Occasionally, I’ll run across it, and immediately touch the paper, trying to re-connect with someone whom I had a complicated and often turbulent relationship.

 

Farewell, Dad, you are fondly remembered–and, by the way, I keep detailed daily "To Do" lists too.

 

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October 24, 2009 | 8:11 PM
I can relate Candace. My father passed 3 1/2 years ago and I still have his daily planner with all his notes and some of his thoughts. The last entry he put in there was for a steak dinner both of use were to have together. When we last spoke that Sunday, we planned to BBQ some steaks at his place on Wednesday. On Monday morning I got a call that my father was being rushed to the hospital where he passed before I could get there. So that final entry he made for us to have dinner still gives me a lump in my throat when I open his planner. Our plans have been delayed, but I’m certain will still meet up again in another life for that dinner we planned on having :)
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October 30, 2009 | 11:46 AM
My dad is 83, and much better organized than I ever will be. I see him slipping away, though, in infinitesimal steps, visible only when I remember two years ago, or five. Our relationship is complicated too, but I guess I've become a friend to him, now that he needs me to be one. As executor I will encounter similar items made at the front of his life that suddenly don't matter anymore. It's a matter of curiosity how I will feel about that.
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November 6, 2009 | 5:00 PM
Enjoy and honor your parents now--while they can still grasp your hand tightly and look you in the eye. I am forever grateful to my folks for hanging in there so long. Also, remember to ask about their early lives, childhood memories, career highlights, etc. while you can. Because once they're gone, all you have are scribbled notes on a pad and fading photographs (still on my fridge).
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