My ex-husband, Jeff, died two days ago and is being buried tomorrow. We would have been divorced fifteen years this coming August; and, truthfully, I haven’t spent much of the intervening time thinking about him.
I knew he was ill late last fall when his daughter, Rachel, contacted me. At that time, she said he wouldn’t live to year’s end. So my two sons and I all wrote him personal letters telling him of our feelings and reminiscing of our time together. Then Earl and I went off to Tahiti for a winter break from Michigan’s snow and cold. And life moved on.
When I returned from Tahiti, there was a message on my answering machine from Jeff. I responded by returning his call and we had a wonderful conversation. He had checked himself out of the nursing home where he’d been and returned to the apartment of his ladyfriend. He sounded in good spirits. He talked about clowning, his first love. And that was the end of it until Rachel emailed me last week that he was in the hospital.
I called her. She said the end was near; Jeff was in Resurrection Hospital in Chicago, not lucid, and breathing laboriously. It was a matter of hours. She promised to keep in touch, while I contacted my two sons with an update.
The inevitable came Friday morning and brought a flurry of communication between Rachel, my sons, and me. Even though we said our goodbyes in those wintry letters of last year, the finality of it — and the timing of it in terms of Father’s Day — is a different thing.
My older son Kevin is driving 600 miles to attend the funeral. He has wonderful memories of Jeff, as does my younger son Keith who cannot attend. I’m glad for both of them that they remember their stepfather as having contributed greatly to their lives. I may not share the same appreciation of the man, but what I want this Father’s Day to be about is an acknowledgment of what he did for Kevin and Keith. Thanks, Jeff.
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