Passage

My father is dying. His gradual decline over the past two years became steeper the past six months. He's now completely unresponsive, neither drinking nor eating. My mom passed away seven years ago so this is not entirely unfamiliar, but there's a mortal vulnerability that I suspect I'll feel with both parents gone. The previous generation is gone and I've moved from death's on-deck circle into the batter's box. I have a friend who claims that men only really come into themselves when their father passes. I hope he's right because if so I'm about to become a much better man.
My Dad had his share of faults that's for sure. Why is it that when he was active and vibrant it was his faults that stood out most for me? Only now in his vulnerable silence can I more clearly see his many admirable qualities. He was certainly a lot more selfless than I've been of late. His whole life revolved around providing for his family, working and making sacrifices so my brother and I would have a safe comfortable home and a privileged education. He was the same in business, coaching and negotiating to ensure that the men on his salesforce were able to make a good living for their families too. He was a rock of dependibity; honesty, reliable, cool-headed. You could trust Steve Campanella to deliver on whatever he promised. No whining. No excuses. He always had a smile and friendly word for the people in his life, looking to make their day a little bit brighter. He even tipped our garbage men and milkmen (yes, I'm that old that we had milkmen growing up) at Christmas. "They've done right by us all year. They have families too." he would say.
I consider myself to be well connected to my feelings, especially for a man, but was unable until yesterday to tell him how much I admired him, how grateful I am for my upbringing, how proud I am to be his son. I'm doubtful if he even knew I was there and I'm quite sure he couldn't understand me. Yet his inability to modestly deflect my gratitude was probably what made it possible to speak my mind. He and I were never very close. He disapproved of me leaving the business world to pursue fine-art photography, a vocation he never could understand. To him a job is not about fulfillment of some personal vision, it's about making money to support yourself and the loved ones in your life. "That's why they call it a job." He also disapproved of my bohemian lifestyle and my "gypsy" wanderings between the coasts. It was that distance between us that I never dared cross. My Dad was too critical for me to risk getting closer. He had the ability to twist a statement of appreciation into a lecture about financial responsibility and how a career as an artist would lead to financial ruin and a disgrace upon the family name. It took his silence for me to speak up. For me to tell him that I loved him.