Dad was dying and we were by no means ready to lose him. At 79, this was his first serious illness. By the time we realized that he was ill, it was already too late for his physicians to make any type of difference. In shocked horror, we stood at his bedside in the intensive care unit, praying, denying, hoping against hope for a much needed miracle, unable to imagine a world without him in it.

My father wore many hats and was many things to many people. For us, his family, he was husband, father, grandfather, and even recently, great-grandfather. To others, he was a caring friend who never allowed a phone call or plea for help go unanswered. He was active in his church and he lived his faith everyday of his life. He took these roles very seriously, and as one who learned early to give of himself, his joy came from the giving.

As the youngest of three daughters, dad and I had a special relationship. I'd been born on his own mother's birthday shortly after her death and to her grieving son, this new birth represented hope. We were more alike than the others and shared a unique understanding of one another unknown to the rest. I married much too young and by age 19, having been deserted by my husband, I was alone with my infant son, Shane with little education and less money. Dad, of course, came to the rescue and with his loving support I picked up the pieces of my shattered life and began my walk into the future.

My father's love for his daughters was unconditional and we never, for one moment, ever doubted his devotion. He'd always hoped for a son but following my birth, it had become apparent that this was not to be. Nearing retirement, Shane became the center of his "Pop's" universe, and ultimately the son dad had never thought he'd have. The two of them became inseparable, and in his early 60's Pop found himself pitching baseballs, inflating basketballs, and leading a cub scout pack. Nothing was too much trouble for "his boy", and a regular neighborhood sight was my father surrounded by children of all ages, as he fixed bikes, skinned knees and distributed ice cream cones. He was always available to give rides to swimming pools, the zoo, or the church picnic, and he enjoyed it as much, if not more, than did the children and their general consensus placed him in the status of hero.

During the early years, Shane did not appear to miss his own father. Much thanks to his Pop's attention. Unfortunately, that same attention caused him to become spoiled and demanding and by the early teenage years, escaped beyond our control. My son was unreachable and nothing we tried seemed to help — from counseling to punishment — it was all ineffective. By now, I had remarried and had 3 more children whom Shane resented and treated quite cruelly. If it wasn't for my new husband's love, dedication and support, my son could have easily been the cause of a second divorce, but nevertheless, we were all at our wit's end — especially Pop.

I began to suspect Shane's involvement with drugs when he reached 14. I called all over the country seeking help for him but none was to be had — unless Shane wished to accept it — and he did not. By 15, his first girlfriend had given birth to my first grandson and the child, a beautiful baby boy, was ultimately placed for adoption in order to ensure he was given the opportunities he deserved and which his parents were far too young to provide. Afterwards, my son went from bad to worse and I lived in daily fear that I'd find him dead. His 147 IQ had no bearing on schoolwork and 2 years in a row, he managed to fail every single subject, leaving him 3 years behind his normal grade. He dropped out of school at 16 against my wishes and continuously, quit one job after another. HE acted out violently and our home became a battleground and Shane's world was engulfed by drugs and negativity. My father was devastated. He too, tried everything, but his attempts, like mine, were futile. Another girlfriend became pregnant and my granddaughter arrived shortly after her father's 18th birthday. He was determined to keep this child but did nothing to support her or make a home for her. She was constantly shifted between us and her other grandparents. We all spent a lot of time praying but God seemed deaf to our pleas.

Finally, at 2:00 one morning, my phone rang. With racing heart, I answered and heard my son asking for help — finally. It was like Christmas for me, and by 10a.m. I had him admitted to a drug and alcohol rehab. Dad and I visited every single day and attended all meetings and counseling sessions. Our prayers had been answered, and we were more than willing to do our part in the long recovery process.

Afterwards, Shane seemed like a different person. He attended classes and earned a GED Diploma. He worked and bought a car and maintained a job, and eventually, and apartment. He decided to enlist in the Marine Corps and became dedicated to meeting their standards. At graduation from basic training, we were thrilled to be told that Shane was "officer material". Pop was overwhelmed with joy at "his boy's" accomplishments and bragged about him to strangers.He actually took an 11X16 graduation photograph to be elaborately framed, and lately actually knocked on neighbor's door to show them.

Unfortunately, our joy was short lived when in the middle of advanced training, Shane managed to get himself discharged from the corps and slipped right back into the drug world; with heroin being his drug of choice. Dad and I were helpless as we watched the child we both loved so much self-destruct. Our hearts were broken. Another rehab experience failed, as did several de-tox tries. Shane was working but his focus was entirely on the evil drugs.

During the entire 2 weeks of my father's illness, Shane spent every possible moment at the hospital. From the moment dad had been admitted, I never once left and my time was spent at his bedside, singing to him the songs he'd always loved and had once sang to me. I was in complete denial and over and over again — right from the start, Shane told me to prepare myself because Pop was dying. His words were cold but I could see the terror in his eyes. I think he was preparing himself, rather than me. He prided himself on never exposing true emotion — to anybody — even to himself and I found no way to get through the walls he'd erected. The last time I'd seen my son cry, he was 8 years old and recovering from ruptured appendix. The effects of drugs and his own father's desertion, had left their mark and while I always knew there was more to him than met the eye, I also knew that I might be wrong.

Finally, realizing that my father could not survive, I took the physician's advice, and signed the forms authorizing them to remove the machines that were keeping him alive. It was now, I realized, only in God's hands.

On a beautiful, vibrant early May morning, as the earth was springing to life, my father peacefully passed away. He was surrounded by 2 of his daughters and sons-in-law who loved him in life and send his way into eternal life. His priest was present, as well as 2 of his grandsons — one of whom was Shane — his boy. In our shock and inconsolable grief, we all fell apart — crying hysterically. We toasted dad with his favorite blackberry brandy. He'd never been much of a drinker, but this was the one drink he occasionally enjoyed and Shane had bought a bottle in order to rub some on his Pop's lips — making sure that the last thing he tasted was something he'd liked. We joined hands and prayed and then, without knowing why, sand to him again. My oldest sister and her husband arrived from out of town, and our hysteria began anew — all except Shane. White-faced, he stood staring — dry eyed and silent. Suddenly, the emotions he fought so valiantly to control overcame him and he completely fell apart. He threw himself over his grandfather's body and screamed over and over, " "MY DAD, MY DAY". It was so agonizing to witness this raw pain that chills went through me.

Eventually, the others went home to make arrangements but Shane and I stayed and continued talking to my father. We thanked him and poured out the love we felt in our hearts. It became apparent after several hours of this, that we were keeping the nurses from their job. We both could still feel his presence and somehow knew that when we left, dad would too. I clipped a lock of hair and kissed him (many times) and stood back to give Shane time for his own goodbyes. He spoke no words — only stood at the bottom of the bed, assumed full military stance, and saluted the only man he felt deserving of the honor. Arm in arm, we left the room, and quietly closed the door behind us.

This was love at its most naked — raw and human. This was the most fitting tribute to the man who gave me life, in doing so, gave Shane life, then showed both of us how to live it.

My daddy! I'll always miss you!

by Marianne Colarossi