Skol

It was Dad's only requirement for his memorial

“The only thing I ask is you celebrate.” Dad took a sip of his Boost.

“Okay.” I didn’t quite know where Dad was going with this request. “Like a party?”

“Yeah, but whatever you say about me, at the end, I want you to say Skol.” He lifted his Boost in the air and smiled.

“You got it.”

And that’s what I did a year ago.

At the end of my eulogy, I reached for a small glass on the church podium; I had my nervine tincture in it. I raised the glass, “Skol!” and took the shot.

Oddly, I remember Dad's memorial but more so out of body. 

I was outside looking in. 

I stood before the people who cared and loved Dad, who respected and treasured him. The words I penned fell from my lips with sobs and adoration. Dad always said I was great with words, and speaking the ones about him cut to my marrow.

Scars remain.

But that's okay because they remind me that he was real.

---

Dad’s Eulogy - September 23rd, 2023

⚡️Talk about the gnome and comb.

43 years.

It wasn't enough time, but even if it were 73, it still wouldn't have been enough. Time is fickle that way.

How do you condense someone's life into a handful of minutes? You can't—especially someone like Dad.

He was an incredible presence in my life. I am a proud Daddy's girl who learned the beauty of colorful language at an early age while fishing and golfing with him and Uncle David.

Dad showed me the wonderment of the universe, whether star gazing on the deck, talking about Black Holes and the rings of Saturn, or taking photos of lightning from a distant storm while on the garage roof.

We would talk for hours.

That didn't change as I became older.

Or where I lived.

We talked about everything during those lengthy chemo treatments this past year at Sanford Spa, as Dad called it. There were tears and laughter. There were sacred moments I will keep safe within my soul. There were stories, recollections, and everything in between. We joked about how Phil is like Dad; it's the ultimate Freudian marriage.

"What did you think of Phil when you met him?"

He laughed. "Well, I didn't want to cause bodily harm like some of the boneheads you brought home."

I'm grateful I married a man like my Dad.

He always considered Phil a son.

And I'm grateful Logan is like his Grandpa.

I mean, they even walked the same.

For Dad, the sun rose and set in Logan's eyes. When I was pregnant, he said, "He's not calling me grandpa."

"What's he going to call you then?"

"Mr. Johnson."

Yeah, that didn't happen.

The first time he held him in the NICU, that was it.

Dad said he fell in love with his buddy boy the second he laid eyes on him.

When Dad was in the hospital this past April, he spoke with Pastor Renae about his cancer, "I fight for those who have cancer, especially those who are young. It's not right." With tears in his eyes, he looked at me and Logan. "I fight for them."

That was Dad.

He thought about everyone else first.

There were many times I wanted him to put himself first, but that whole stubborn trait we have.

We were driving down Kiawnis to his 6th radiation appointment. Those treatments were brutal. "I don't know if I can do this." Dad was exhausted, "You don't have to. We will turn around, have breakfast at McDonalds, and enjoy the morning."

He was quiet, and I kept driving. I turned down 18th; he took a deep breath, "We'll grab breakfast at the bodega afterward."

I patted his leg. "You got it."

He called the little eatery at the Cancer Center the bodega; he got that from his favorite show, Blue Bloods. We always said Dad and Tom Selleck could be related.

To witness such perseverance was extraordinary.

Dad was going to do this his way. Every decision was his. He soaked in every second of every day. I'd catch him looking at me; he'd wink or smile; it was like he memorizing that moment, gripping tight to it with everything he had.

His humor and grit never wavered.

Dad loved Swedish incense. When I was over, I'd burn it while he slept in the morning. At one point, he strolled out from the bedroom with his walker through this plume of smoke. "I thought the condo was on fire. I didn't know how I would get out, but then I smelled it and knew it was you."

We couldn't stop laughing. It was a whole action movie sequence with Dad rolling through the smoke and into the bathroom.

Another humorous, memorable time was last December when we had a pre-winter snow apocalypse; the roads had an inch of ice on them, winds 60 miles per hour, and the wind chill was 70 below. We had just moved back here from South Carolina, and I didn't quite have my snow legs yet, but here I was, driving 10 miles per hour down 41st Street, praying I'd arrive to pick up Dad for his chemo treatment. He was determined. We were going, darn it. We made it to Sanford; he had his treatment, and we were heading out. First, the cancer center door was frozen halfway open. That's not good. When the valet pulled the Jeep around, we got Dad in, and the heat was already cranked up. We were shivering like crazy. We looked out the windshield; it was a complete whiteout; it looked like the frozen tundra. Dad put his hood up and cussed. I pulled up to the stop sign, we started to laugh, and I said, "What in the world is this?"

Dad said, "Welcome home." We were near tears from laughing because here we were, and no one else was at the cancer center because seriously, who would be out in this? We were. That's who. Somehow, we made it back to Mom and Dad's. While driving, He kept telling me, "You're doing great. It's all coming back to you."

My time with Dad was extraordinary. It was magical. He was magical. He helped me make sense of the world, especially when I was younger. He protected me. He listened to me. He loved me.

Nothing was left unsaid between us. Not a single letter; we said it all and then some.

Now for Dad's words, or as he called them, his old man wisdom. He said, "Between my cancer brain and your neuropathy brain, you better write this down."

I did. I wrote everything down.

Please don't carry anger and fear with you.

I want you to live and be happy.

There's so much more to this life, to this world.

Perfection is overrated.

Don't come to your last days with regret. I have regret, and I don't want that for you. I want you to do what makes you happy, and who cares what others think or say? *naughty word* ‘em. Look at the stars, eat the pie, enjoy the mess, write the story, walk barefoot in the creek, look out the window and watch the rain fall, tell jokes, and laugh at the wrong times, especially when singing before Christmas dinner. Don't be so serious. I don't want to go; I really don't; this sucks, but know I love you and I will be around.

He's around alright. He's already messing with our Alexa. Dad warned me he would.

Cancer didn't win. We may feel it did, and cancer may think it did, but it didn't. The love that embodied him is beyond powerful and immense.

I love this quote by L.R. Knost; it reminds me of Dad's philosophy.

Life is amazing. And then it's awful. And then it's amazing again. And in between the amazing and awful, it's ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That's just living a heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it's breathtakingly beautiful.

Dad loved music. I mean, the man could dance; his nickname was Boogie for a reason. You'd hear him humming, whistling, or singing when unloading the dishwasher or dusting. The song coming up is one I sang to him. During the chorus, I would sing thank you very much, Dad. He'd say thank you. We would get all emotional and gooey.

I promise I won't torture you with my vocals.

The one thing that was an absolute must was I skol. If I don't, I will be in big trouble.

Dad, you leave a legacy of Love, and I'm honored to be part of that.

I'm honored to be your daughter.

I love you, Daddy♥️

Skol!!!!