VIRGINIA BEACH — For the last two years, my father and I talked on the phone at least once a month. Often, he would call me in the middle of the day when I was working. Sometimes I let his call go to voicemail.
Later, I would listen to his message, every call beginning with: “Hey, Pumpkin, this is your dad calling.”
I sensed that the timeframe of Dad’s calls was due to his being at home with his dog in the afternoon hours. On the rare occasion that I answered a midday call, I would tell my dad that I’d either call him when I was cooking dinner that night or call him that Saturday morning while I was walking my dog.
Writing about the meaning of these long talks with my dad is difficult. As I write this, he passed away only last week. But the memory of our conversations comforts me and reminds me of what matters most.
A day or so after my father’s death and before his funeral, I spent an evening dog walk with my head down, scouring my phone records for proof that I had returned my father’s calls at regular intervals and talked with him as often as I hoped I had. By the time I got to my driveway, I had traced our record back over a year.
I had ample proof that not only had we reached our goal set long ago of talking at least once a month, but we had also talked for quite a while on most occasions. I was profoundly relieved.
Was I assuaging the guilt of missed moments one feels when a loved one passes? Was I proving to myself I had been a good daughter? I’ve wondered about this and concluded that it’s not guilt, regret, or a need to prove anything that makes my father’s phone calls sit heavy on my mind. It’s longing.
Talking with my father about the important and the mundane has always mattered. However, I did not know until searching my phone how much I looked forward to our discussions and how much of my daily life I highlighted in memory to share with him.
Sometimes we’d talk about an article in Smithsonian Magazine, to which he had given me a subscription. I emailed him a few weeks ago about my plans to share with him my thoughts about an AARP article. He wrote back, “No, no, no, it’s not possible I have a daughter old enough to be an AARP member.”
Until this point, I was unaware that my father had crossed my mind on so many occasions on so many days.
“I wonder what Dad would say about,” “I have to tell Dad,” or “Dad would love this” are the phrases I have said to myself throughout the week, a reflex and testament to the many interests and traits we shared or the parts of my life that benefited from his wisdom.
As my father neared 90, I often thought about what I would miss the most when he passed away. Would it be his strange sense of humor, which bordered on corny, or would it be his love of life and learning? Would I lament the many things we hadn’t done together? The phone calls we did not take or make?
I’m grateful for thoughts shared by family and friends who want to provide comfort. Some have said that I can look forward to meeting my father again in the hereafter. That we can make up for the lost time.
My faith tells me I don’t have to wait until then to talk with him. We’ve faithfully conversed for years. All his passing means is that I may have to listen a little harder or wait a little longer for his reply.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
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