Sudden Loss and Peaceful Goodbye - Still Carl

Still Carl

“So how do I say goodbye

To someone who’s been with me for my whole damn life?

You gave me my name and the color of your eyes

I see your face when I look at mine

So how do I, how do I, how do I say goodbye?”-Dean Lewis

This song crops up in my social media feed regularly, with spinning photos of a loved one. Now, in my own way, it's my turn — a post to honor my Pop. Carl passed away last week. My heart is broken, but the events were orchestrated in a way only Carl could have pulled off. He took care of everything over the years for our family. This was his final gift to us.

Before I explain — full disclosure — my brother Tom and I look like my mother and have brown eyes. Susan and John see his face in the mirror and do have the color of his eyes. But I love the song's sentiment, so give me a pass. I think most folks would say I shared his stoic demeanor.

My sister Susan and I have lived close to Carl's retirement community for the last three and a half years. Between the two of us, we saw him multiple times a week, without fail. I am so grateful for that time we had with him. My brothers both live very far away and visit two or three times a year. Both had scheduled a trip last weekend, and we'd planned an all-kids dinner with him on Monday. He died the night before.

But wait — Susan saw him Friday. Tom and I visited with him Saturday afternoon. John spent time with him early Sunday afternoon. When checking on him Sunday night, the CNA noticed a medical situation and convinced Pop they needed to get him to the ER. Carl was alert, arguing that he didn't want to go. When he got to the hospital, while waiting for a room to open up, he had a sudden heart attack and was gone.

I know this: Carl was tired. Carl got to see all his kids. Carl decided. That's my story, and no one will tell me anything different.

So here I am, heartbroken but — in some strange way — thankful. Thankful he didn't suffer. Thankful we all saw him. We'd already been through a days-long death process with my mother years ago — staring at monitors, listening to beeping machines. It was brutal. Carl would not have had any part of that. He also made sure we were all together in one location. There was no middle-of-the-night dash to the hospital, no last-minute plane reservations, no gut-wrenching medical decisions.

There's a book (and movie) that's one of my favorites — Still Alice. Read it if you haven't. To the end, he was Still Carl. Yes, there was some cognitive decline, but my last memory will be his joy at seeing his son Tom, and quickly asking me what I'd brought him. (See other posts about Carl's sweet tooth.)

I'll remember all the lessons, experiences, and opportunities my dad offered me. We traveled the world — Alaska and Poland were his favorites. He supported all my athletic endeavors as a girl growing up in a boys-only club; I was one of the first girls to participate in Punt, Pass, and Kick. He let me pitch batting practice for the Little League team he coached, back when girls weren't yet allowed to play. He never missed a high school basketball game I played in. Most important — whether in sports or career — he taught me I could do or be anything. He loved getting a phone call from some far-flung destination. ("Ich bin in Berlin, Papa!") Girl Dads are celebrated these days. Celebrate mine — I had the best.

I won't say goodbye. I'll remember instead. Safe travels, Dad. Don't forget your passport, and make sure you get to the gate on time.

Love,

Carol