(From the Janesville Messenger, 7-15-07)
If you’re a regular reader of this space, you’ll recall that my Father’s Day column a few weeks ago was devoted to my father-in-law, Loren Risse, whose health was declining as he fought mesothelioma, an incurable lung cancer.
Nine days after that column appeared, Loren lost the battle. At about the time that the presses will be printing this newspaper, I will be attending his memorial service. In fact, Father’s Day was really his last “good” day. His six children were all there with him and he still had some mobility, still had an appetite, still was able to carry on lucid conversation. The deterioration after that was rapid; it was like he willed himself to hang on as long as he could until his whole family was able to be with him one last time.
It sounds strange to say, but his death was a relief. He had been in a lot of pain for many months. During his last couple of days, his only movement of any kind was to grimace, despite being on enough morphine to choke a horse. Within minutes after he died, his facial muscles contracted to form what appeared to be a smile. I don’t think that was a coincidence.
Up to this point, I had been fortunate to avoid dealing with death in my immediate family, with one brutal exception - my father in 1985. In an eerie coincidence, my father died when I was 23 years and 9 months old – the exact amount of time that my wife had been a part of my life when her father died.
When my dad died, I was filled with anger. Angry that the doctors couldn’t save him, angry that he wouldn’t see my post-college life come together, angry that he died before my wedding, angry that he would never meet his future grandchildren, angry that my older siblings got to have him 10 years more than I did.
My immediate reaction to this one wasn’t anger; it was regret. Could I have been a better son-in-law?
Loren and I had very little in common, aside from his daughter being my wife. He loved hunting and fishing, while hunting doesn’t appeal to me and I’ve fished maybe a handful of times. Our political views were diametrically opposed. He was extremely talented with his hands, building and carving. I’m lucky when I can hammer a nail properly. Our disparity in interests didn’t lead to a great deal of deep conversation. Could I, should I, have tried to reach out more?
Maybe it’s too much to expect, that every relationship we have contain some deep defining moment or moments. Perhaps that’s the stuff of Hollywood. Maybe in the long run, it’s enough that you shared laughs over a meal or a game of dominoes, were there to help when the other one needed you, and knew how much respect was in each other’s heart.
