celebrategrace.com

Sorry, I passed my personal deadline for writing about music every two weeks.  I think the following will explain the lapse.

On Friday, August 3^rd, I spoke with my mother and she told me that my Pop wasn’t doing well.  The only problem with that is that she had been telling me that for the past nine months.  First, it was his hips and knees, then his eyes, and finally it was the intestinal cancer that was discovered in March.

I had been planning a trip to see Pop for about a month and a half.  My wife Cheryl, my daughter Beth and I would be spending a week with him.  He and I had made plans on what we were going to do with those seven days.  Share stories and record them.  Visit some old friends.  Eat lobster.  Enjoy one another’s company.  I think we both knew that this would be the last time we would see each other, and we both wanted to make the most of it. 

We left Spokane that Saturday morning and flew to Portland then Las Vegas on Southwest.  When we got to Vegas we had a three hour layover.  After a quick lunch, we found our gate and waited in line.  After we boarded the plane, Cheryl checked her phone and found a message from my brother Pat.  He said that the family was gathered in Pop’s hospital room and that we needed to head straight to the hospital when we landed in Philadelphia.  On landing in Philly, I called Pat and he said to hurry.  “It’s going to be a photo finish.”

From then on, everything seemed to fall into place.  It was if the Lord was removing all obstacles.  The Hertz bus pulled up just as we walked out of the terminal.  At the Hertz place, they got us a car right outside the door.   At 1:30 AM, the highways were fairly empty.  The cops were no where in sight as I broke at least a hundred traffic laws speeding across Central and North Jersey.  While the route was one I traveled at least fifty times as I went back and forth between my father’s house and the Naval Academy, my memory of the route was a little rough and I was trying to fly ahead in my brain so as to not make a mistake. 

Driving west on I-80 through Parsippany, I had a moment where I couldn’t remember where the hospital was.  Here was the hospital that I was born in, that I had been to hundreds of times to visit family and friends, and that I had driven by every day for three years as I drove to the golf course where I worked.  I started driving by instinct through the streets of Denville and suddenly I saw the big “H” signs.  I found my way. 

My brother Dan and sister Maureen were waiting for us in the parking lot to escort me to my father’s room.  All they said was: “we have to hurry.” 

As I entered his room I mustered up a bit of bravado and in a very loud voice said, “Where the hell is Brian Whalen?” 

My mother turned to me and said, “Oh Tommy, he just passed.”  Pat was shaking his head. 

The nurse said softly, “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”

As I made my way to my father’s side, the nurse said, “Wait!”  My father was breathing again, but very slow, shallow breaths.  I took my father’s hand and whispered, “I made it, Pop.  I love you, Pop.”  And then to keep him going I started telling him about our drive north from Philly.  I stroked his hair as he struggled to breathe.  I kissed his forehead.  I kept telling him everything that came into my head. 

After about two minutes the nurse said, “He’s passed.” 

Pat said, “That’s was amazing.  He waited for you.  He came back when he heard your voice.” 

Pop was a nurturing, but firm father who saw the potential in each of his children.  He allowed each of us to find our own way in life.  But he also saw to it that we had a solid foundation in the faith and in the community before we started down those diverse paths. 

To my sibling and me, Pop was a trusted advisor and counselor, a technical expect on a variety of topics and eventually a dear friend.  He was active in the church and in the community.  He was a true patriot who served his country in the Navy and as a civil servant in the Department of the Army for 35 years.  He took his civic duties quite seriously and enjoyed debating the various issues facing our nation.  Pop also wasn’t afraid to question the decisions of those in authority and made a regular habit of it.  While he could be opinionated, he carefully considered those opinions and didn’t come by them lightly, but once he had formed them he could be quite stubborn.

As Pop’s health failed over the past year, he suffered with dignity and grace.  I spoke to him the Monday before he passed away.

“Pop, how are you?”

“Just great!” he said in a very hoarse, weak voice. 

“You don’t sound too good.”

“I’m doing fine with what I have and I can’t do anything about the rest of it, so why should I complain.”

In fact, I never heard him complain – ever.  Searching back in my memory, I cannot ever recall him complaining.  He has truly been an inspiration to my siblings and me.  He has set a standard of courage and faith that I hope to match someday.  He was at peace with the cross the Lord had laid on his shoulders and he accepted it without reservation.

So farewell Pop.  You are sorely missed.  You have set a fabulous example on how to live one’s life.  I love you and will always love you.