My father was a challenging, funny, well-read, well-traveled man who was also a huge pain in my ass. He was complicated and unique, but he unflinchingly thought – knew – I could do anything.

This is a tribute to him.

He who won’t get to read this blog but who was one of my first followers. Who was a true gentleman who held doors and carried bags but also demanded – expected – his two daughters to do something with their lives. Who surrounded himself with smart, career-driven women who could challenge his razor-sharp intellect.  Who thought nothing was worse than being bored or unchallenged. Who spent the majority of his life in New York, but never lost his posh, New England accent. Who traveled the world and completed crossword puzzles and loved tennis. Whose drink was Tanqueray and tonic. Whose first instant message to me read, “Dear XXX, How did you know I was online? Love, Dad,” but who also – twenty years later- tried (and okay, failed) to find a way to play online chess with his granddaughter when he was sick and unable to play at an actual board. Who smelled good until the end, even the day before he died. Whose nails were always trimmed and clean, who took pride in being clean-shaven, well-coiffed and tidy. Who loved to discuss books, movies, and TV, and who may have been the only person I know to love (and watch) the show “The Equalizer.”

That’s just a small snapshot of the man I called dad. Last week I lost him. And even though I was both lucky and unlucky that his death was somewhat expected – slow and painful as it unfairly was – and even though I have friends who have lost parents, spouses, friends and I watched them all mourn, what I learned is that dying – and grieving –  is as individual as birth. That knowing everyone’s death “story” is as useless as knowing everyone’s labor story.  That you can’t know until you know.

This is what I didn’t know would happen as he was dying:

That I would know he was not ready to die despite the pain which he rated a “7” or “8” out of 10. Because for him, limited, painful, bed-ridden living was better than not living at all. That seeing the sun rise; feeling the breeze come in off his porch; reading the newspaper’s headlines; watching the U.S Open – that was still life.

That he would lose his voice a week or so before he died so even before I never saw him again, I never heard him again.

That when he was dying, truly dying, he would fight to keep his eyes open to avoid the grips of death. That there would be terror in those eyes that neither I nor my sister could assuage. That he didn’t want us to see him like that but we did.

That there is no dignity in dying, especially for a man who takes pride in his appearance. It is messy and unfair and humiliating. That even though he still had his mind, even though he was still lucid, his body had had enough.

That even though I thought he had 9 lives, he didn’t. As I read in the wonderful Book Thief  “Death waits for no man – and if he does, he doesn’t usually wait very long.” But my dad managed to make death wait quite a while.

That was the before. Then there’s the after which is perhaps worse: Raw and often unbearable.

In the after, I will discover odd things about myself I didn’t expect.

I will wish I believed in heaven, an after life, reincarnation, something, anything.

That my grief will come in waves so powerful that I cannot imagine that wave ebbing, retreating, calming as waves always do;  as I’ve watched them do with my father at my side or as he relentlessly tossed me laughing, begging, squealing with joy into their fury.

That I will focus on his once bright green eyes, dimmed by illness, and think “no one will have bright eyes like that again.” And then, when I’m not expecting it, someone will point out that my girl has beautiful green eyes, and “where does she get those from?” Or that my sister will, in her own grief, point out that my son’s mischievous nature is quite like that of our father. And how these small comments will make me feel hopeful, less lost, more grounded in a time of despair.

That I will take both comfort and immense pain looking at old pictures –  mostly of him young, healthy, robust. That I will look at pictures of the two of us laughing, or me looking adoringly at him as a girl and think: At that moment, he had his whole life ahead of him.

I didn’t know that despite my avowed atheism, I will feel like maybe, just maybe, if I play one of his favorite pieces (Brandenburg’s Concerto No. 3 in G) loudly enough into my headphones, loudly and directly into my own ears, my own soul, maybe just maybe (I pray, though I’ve never prayed), he will hear the music.

I didn’t know that I will think, maybe even believe, that while I couldn’t comfort him enough while he was alive, while I couldn’t take away the fear in his eyes or pass on my strength to him with my touch, maybe, please maybe, there’s something I can do now.

Maybe if I pedal hard enough on the elliptical, maybe if I keep my body strong and healthy,  maybe if I close my eyes and picture him next to me hearing that Bach concerto that is moving me, strengthening me, debilitating me, maybe I have that ability to make him hear and feel and know. Because, after all, his genes course through mine and so maybe he can still be here with me least for a short time, hearing the music, feeling my racing heartbeat, my ragged breaths, knowing my sorrow.

I will learn that even though he was imperfect and limited and didn’t show much emotion – except when he was putting a strong hand on my shoulder, embracing me at my wedding, gazing into my newborn’s eyes- that he saved all of my sister’s camp letters, all of our report cards, both of our wedding invitations.

I will learn that he loved me more deeply than I thought. And I him.

Finally, I will learn that those around me – siblings, friends who have also lost a parent, family – they all deal with grief in their own ways. My way is writing.

So dad, through sheer will and determination – qualities I know you loved –  I’m hoping you feel these words, these emotions, my love. I’m playing your Bach for you – not one last time, but many more times. As often as you need.