A Single Regret I Can’t Square
But I understand it
I recognize the risk of looking back too often — so much so that I created a fictional grandma who tells her grandson, “Don’t be an owl. Remember to look ahead.”
Alas, I mostly follow Grandma’s advice except for one decision I made that can’t be undone.
My real-life grandmother was turning 80, and my parents were having a celebration for this special birthday in my hometown of Denver. I was 22, living in Boston, and trying to find my way. I had a job at Massachusetts General Hospital as a secretary, supporting the team’s efforts to build an outpatient facility (that would later become the Wang Center). I was told that if I worked hard and had extra time, they would let me partake in the data analysis and grant writing.
I did as my manager suggested, and she did as she promised. I was still only making $9,000 per year, but my efforts were appreciated, and I was eventually promoted.
It was in this context that I did not fly to Denver. I simply did not have the money. I could have asked my parents, but they were themselves aging and lacking financial security. I could have asked my siblings, and they would have flown me home and told me not to worry about paying them back.
But I was proud…and very low on cash.
Instead, I relegated myself to hearing about the party and seeing photos. I didn’t regret my decision because at the “mature age” of 22, I thought it was time for me to pay my way and construct a life that allowed me to provide for myself.
This would have all been okay, but two months later, my grandmother passed. One month after that, my father died.
My father’s death was unexpected. He had been coughing and, what I later learned, was retaining fluid. It was the beginning of congestive heart failure. While I spoke with him routinely — until the coughing made it hard for anything but a short call — I never got to give him a hug and hang out near his bed while they figured out what was wrong.
My youngest brother left university before finals to be with my dad because he was worried. He was also smarter than I. It would turn out that he gave our family my dad’s last words. My father had come home from the hospital with a lot of pills he would need to be taking. As he sat there in his recliner, looking at his pills and probably wondering whether this was ushering in a new chapter in his life that he could accept, my mom headed out to our grocery store. She needed to run the business to eke out a modest living.
On that morning, my brother woke up and headed to the kitchen. My dad was in the living room adjacent to the kitchen, relaxing. I am certain he was wondering how he would weather the storm that was brewing with all these pills.
On his way to the kitchen, my brother stopped to check on my dad. My brother wasn’t feeling great and told my dad, “I woke up with a sore throat this morning.”
My dad’s response: “Go make yourself some tea. Everything will be fine.”
It was when my brother went into the kitchen to make some tea that he heard what sounded like a snort. He went back into the living room and saw my dad slumped. He called 911. They came immediately and shortly after, pronounced him deceased.
There are some gifts in this story. My mother didn’t have to wonder what would have happened had no one been home. Could she have saved him?
My brother was able to hear my dad’s last words, “Everything will be fine,” which was so in character with who he was. He was always reassuring to his children.
My dad got to be a dad in his last moments and direct his son.
Maybe the biggest of all was the gift that my proud father didn’t have to endure the indignities of what would have probably become a steep health decline. We learned later that dialysis was imminent, with more challenges to follow.
I am left with one big life regret: I did not make it to my grandmother’s party. I would have been able to see both my grandmother and my dad before they passed. I understand my decision. I don’t usually dwell on my mistakes, except when my mind wanders back to memories of my dad.
My dad was an amazing human being. He grew up poor but with firm character and self-reliance. In his teens, he had to go to the bank and ask that they not foreclose on his parents’ house. He was successful.
He and my mom raised our family of six kids with love, wisdom, and discipline. He was a religious man, but in a quiet way. He was also a generous man who would let customers run up tabs that they sometimes didn’t pay.
He believed and often said, “What goes around, comes around.” It was his small way of making the world a little nicer.
And his one unmet ambition? He wanted to be a writer. It wasn’t in the cards. Even back then, writing wasn’t an affordable career choice. So maybe my habit of writing is where my virtual hug can happen. Maybe I am fulfilling a dream of my dad’s that is also mine.
Maybe now, I can stop being an owl.
I am glad for you that you had such a father, and such a grandmother.
Jill, this was tender and deeply human. Sometimes the things we miss shape us just as much as the things we do.