No need to apologize

It's the middle of October and I just realized I forgot my Dad's birthday. It was September 23rd, 1930.

I actually forgot it a few times while he was alive. Dad would posture that it was "just another day," but woe betide us if we forgot. He liked birthdays and holidays more than he let on. So, while I don't feel guilty, I stopped for a moment this morning and gave him a long thought.

Because he died so slowly, our relationship diminished over a decade, but I'll always remember our intense letters back and forth, the phone calls, particularly as I separated and divorced from my miserably unhappy first wife, his brutal, intense honesty, loyalty, and forgiveness.

Dad forgave me anything. It used to drive my first wife nuts, because no matter how foolish or arrogant or tactless I was, Dad was on my side. As illness diminished and isolated him, I found myself pulling away from him, angry at how his needs consumed my mother, isolated my parents, and deprived my children of a set of grandparents. Consumed by the ever increasing maintenance of his own body and by fear of total, inevitable loss of control, he seemed not to notice my anger. He seemed preoccupied with tracking my mother and reminding her of things she needed to do.

Finally, I realized that Mom was losing her memory and that Dad was obsessing, holding things together, keeping things running from inside the prison his body had become. Shortly before he died, when we knew his death was imminent, I went to Dad in his big metal bed and told him "I know what's happening with Mom. I promise I'll take care of her." We hugged, and he told me again that he loved me.

I left for Iowa and my busy family, and he passed away quietly about a week later, at home. I had talked with Mom a day before he died, and she passed on a message: "Dad says 'Semper Fi.'" I knew I was forgiven again.