As time goes on, I realize that I'm more like my dad than I ever thought. A few family members have said that as I get older, I look more like my Grandpa Long, Cyrus Long. Dad's dad. Like Dad, I'm quiet. I don't need any hurrahs for doing basic things, though they're appreciated. Dad was a man of few words, but he said what he meant—and he meant what he said. We don't always appreciate the little things about our loved ones until they're gone.
Thirty years is a long time to miss someone. I often wish that he would have lived even five or ten years longer so he could have met Diana and gotten to know her. Honestly, I think he would have really liked her.
One of my fondest memories was how Dad and I would happen to pass each other in the kitchen and I'd have a quick question for him about some trivial thing. After answering the question, our conversation would go off in all sorts of directions and we'd end up talking till the sun went down and we had to turn on the light. And then talked some more.
I look back on the many things that Dad did that, at the time, didn't seem like much, but now I've realized that those things were a lot bigger than I could ever imagine...the times Dad drove my brother and me on our paper routes when it was raining too hard to ride our bikes. Keeping on me until I could ride a two-wheeler without any assistance. Letting me ride both of his motorcycles one time, each time resulting in a crash (none serious, thankfully). Working six days a week to keep our family fed, clothed and sheltered, and making sure that things around the house got fixed as soon as he could. If I continued the list, it would go on for hundreds of pages.
Over the years, Dad's smoking (Pall Malls red pack—no filters!) and the fact that he worked in a shop where dust and shavings from a number of different types of plastic were plentiful contributed to what ended up being full blown emphysema. That isn't something that gets better over time.
After almost six months in the hospital, Dad was moved to a rest home in South El Monte. We went to visit a few times, but with Dad having a breathing tube in his throat, we weren't able to have much in the way of conversation. We could speak to him, and he could nod or shake his head. Trying to write was difficult because his once impeccable handwriting had become hard to read.
One evening, I got a feeling that I'd better go visit Dad. I drove out to the rest home and got to spend some time with him. His breathing had become so labored that he was out of breath from merely lying in bed. I decided to cut my visit short so that Dad could rest. I'd be back to visit when he felt better.
However, another visit was not meant to be.
The very next day about 3:30, I got a call at work from a very tearful sister Valerie. Dad passed away on July 29, 1988, just three days before my 29th birthday. It was a Friday, and while I could have left work, I decided to stay with less than an hour left. But I stayed in my dark office till just past quitting time, just in case my emotions overcame me.
Because of the timing, Mom was concerned about when to hold Dad's funeral service. She called me and asked if I'd have a problem with having Dad's service on my birthday. I said very honestly, no. We needed to take care of Dad and I'd have plenty more birthdays. But, she contacted me later and said that "they were booked on August 1, but August 2 was open." That was fine by me. However, many years later, Mom confessed that Forest Lawn did have a few spots open for a service on August 1, but she felt that she couldn't do it on that day. While some people would regret someone dying that close to their birthday or a major holiday or whatever, I have no bad feelings toward my dad. After all, he'd been sick for quite some time before leaving us and he didn't have any say as to when that would be. He went when God was ready to have him go home.
Strangely, I don't remember a whole lot about Dad's service. It was a bright, sunny day. Lori and I met at Mom's, her mom met us there. Our family rode in a limousine provided by the cemetery from there to Forest Lawn (Hollywood Hills), had a service inside one of the chapels—the Old North Church, I think—a graveside service, then a limousine ride back to Mom's. During both services, Mom was quite composed and was able to smile and greet people. She told me later that at least one person told her that she wasn't "grieving properly" because she wasn't wailing, falling down and carrying on. Different people grieve in different ways. As Mom said, she did her grieving when she knew the end was near. She had been watching Dad slowly die for the last six months of his life—even longer if you count the extent of time he suffered. We grieve in our own way, whatever works best for us.
Here's a picture of Dad taken while he and Mom were on a 25th anniversary cruise to Alaska (1982).
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Bruce David Long (11/10/27 - 7/29/88) |
