Ten years ago today, I traveled to Beaufort, South Carolina to see My Dad for the last time, after he had been critically injured by an elderly driver who had no business being behind the wheel of a car. My Dad was in the same hospital where I had been born almost 40 years earlier. He was not conscious when I arrived, and he never regained consciousness, though I was there with him when he left the troubles of this world behind and flew away, which is important.
He passed away a couple of days after his beloved North Carolina State Wolfpack stomped my alma mater Navy’s football team by a score of 65 to 19. That was okay, though. I like the Wolfpack, too. He watched the game from his hospital bed. The last time that we spoke, by phone, we talked about the game, through his morphine fog. I’m glad he got to see it.
It was important to me that the last words he heard from me on that phone call were “I love you.” We’re one of those families that ends pretty much every conversation with those words, because you never know what tomorrow might bring. In this case, tomorrow brought something awful, so having said that made a big difference.
The image above is a memorial that my Mom placed in The Beaufort Gazette, since My Dad’s buried in the National Cemetery there, and he had so many friends in the area who we know will like to see it. The top image on the Wikipedia page for Beaufort National Cemetery is one that I took just after My Dad’s funeral. His grave is the fresh one right below and to the left of the big live oak in the middle of the photo.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since I took that photo. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago, since so much has changed since then — but other times, it feels like yesterday, since I remember it all so vividly, down to the tiniest details that usually fade with time.
I miss him terribly, and think about him daily. And, thus, the public service announcement that I make pretty much anytime I mention him online: if you know an elderly or infirm driver who is no longer capable of safely operating a motor vehicle, you really need to help him or her transition to a non-driving state. Now. The man who killed My Dad walked away with a sprained wrist, while our lives were irrevocably changed, forever, for the worse. You don’t want to be responsible for doing that to somebody else’s family.
Take the keys when it’s time to do so. Please.