My dad, Bill Teemley, was ambitious, hard-working, and deeply conservative. I was a wildly liberal 23 year old who’d recently completed a “useless” Theatre Arts degree and moved back in with the folks. Somewhere along the line a Game of Thrones-sized ice wall grew up between us. We barely spoke. Dad didn’t get me (I’m an only child, so everything is about me), and I sure didn’t get him. So I figured he never even thought about me. Still, with multiple non-job offers flooding in, I had time on my hands.
So I asked Mom what I could do about The Wall.
“Why don’t you go with him to pick up newspapers?” she replied.
Dad’s job as a newspaper dealer included picking up papers from the plant at 3:30 a.m. Seven days a week. So naturally my response was,
“Is there something else I could do?”
Mom looked at me and blinked.
So I told Dad I thought it might “fun” to go with him.
He woke me up at 2:30 the next morning. I thought I was in purgatory.
We drove to Denny’s where, to my surprise, Dad wasn’t a generic “hun” but a warmly hello-ed “Bill.” We avoided each other over omelets.
But the next morning, we actually had a conversation. It went something like this:
“The coffee here’s sure brown.”
“Yep.”
For three months, I went with Dad to pick up newspapers, always stopping at Denny’s, each time saying a little more.
We never had any Big Talks. But over those three months we slowly rediscovered each other. Nothing magical (unless you count being able to laugh together again magical). Just us.
When I finally landed a job and had to stop, I actually missed it.
Being a newspaper dealer, Dad had a couple dozen carriers, mostly college guys, who picked up their papers at 4:00 a.m. and disseminated them to the sleeping world. But every other week, one of them would fail to show up. And then Dad would have to deliver newspapers in the dark.
July 20th was one of those mornings.
I was still asleep when the phone rang. Mom answered it at her end of the house, but was suddenly next to me pushing on my shoulder:
“Honey, wake up. It’s about your dad…”
“Did they say–?”
She didn’t know any more than that. She didn’t want to. Because if she knew more, it would make it real.
I drove us to the hospital through a sea of undulating hope and fear. Neither of us spoke.
When we got there, we gave them Dad’s name and were ushered into a room with a curtain. Suddenly Mom was the child and I was the grown-up. A doctor entered and pulled back the curtain. Mom gasped.
There was nothing there but Dad’s wallet and keys.
“Where did they…?” I began.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Teemley has passed.”
“No, wait, you mean they moved him to another–”
“Mr. Teemley is dead.”
“No. You mean…” If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t be dead.
The doctor told us what little they knew: Dad had had a heart attack while delivering newspapers and been found several hours later. It was just enough to solidify the nightmare into a stony reality that we could never wake up from.
We drove home in silence. There were no undulating layers now. Only a grey, featureless sea of despair.
When we got home, I couldn’t cry. I had to be there for Mom. She moaned like an animal with its foot caught in a trap, never speaking any actual words.
Finally, a couple of hours later, I got up and thumbed through Dad’s wallet. It contained five photographs: One of Mom and four of me.
I called Mom’s sister and asked to her to tell everyone on both sides of the family.
Then I called my childhood best bud, Jeff, and asked him to tell all our friends. I was matter-of-fact. Monotone. I had to be.
“How are you doing?” Jeff asked.
And then I said what I hadn’t even known I was thinking:
“I never told him I loved him.” And the tears broke.
That was when Mom, as if released from a spell, suddenly stood up, crossed over to me and said, before enfolding me in her arms,
“You told him every day for three months.”
If you love someone—or, worse, if you fear you don’t—
Tell them you love them. Now.
In memoriam:
I love you, Dad.
Always did. Always will.
Oh how I miss my dad! And my mom!
I so understand, Holly.
Sad and yet beautiful too.
This is the best post I have read on your blog, Mitch. It especially hits home for me, because today would have been my dad’s 85th birthday. But he died at the age of 53. A heart attack.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to my father for over eight years before he died. A huge wall of ice. But one month before his unexpected death, i sent him a letter, telling him that I had decided to think about the good memories and let go of the bad.
So glad you sent that letter, Linda.
multiply 7 * 4 linda
What an incredible blessing God gave you and your dad with those three months. Such beautiful words, the love you had (and have) for your dad is palpable through your writing. I have no doubt that he knew. God bless you and your family
Thank you, Shanon, you too.
I miss my dad as well.he had said he has written a letter for all three of us .me and my 2 brothers and kept it for us to read after he has gone.but we searched everywhere but couldn’t find it.i still feel.sad that we couldn’t read his last words that he had written for us
So sorry you were unable to find those letters. But I’ll bet your hearts know what is, or should be, in them.
Reblogged this on Blue Dragon Journal and commented:
Both parents died two decades ago. I still miss them. I took care of them in their last years, something I will never regret.
Thank you for sharing this, Mitch… you’ve got me teary-eyed now! I still have both Mom and Dad, and I am grateful for that everyday! xx
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Thank you for sharing this story. What a good reminder to tell those we love that we love them and that simple actions do speak louder than words.
Funny how not having a job during that time lead to be a blessing of spending time with your father. Sending much love to you and your family.
Thank you, and to you and yours, as well.
Artfully and effectively related. You are a good teacher. Your mom was right: sometimes actions speak louder than words.
You’ve put into words a story I’ve lived through twice now. I did tell my dad I loved him before it was too late, but I didn’t tell my mother. Like your father her passing was sudden (if not unexpected) and there was no warning. No time for closure nor telling her I loved her. I just hope she realizes now that I did and do. The second time was my husband’s passing. I saw him briefly before he slipped into the coma that he never woke from. He was agitated and spouting gibberish and I was numb. I didn’t think to tell him I loved him and the last conversation we’d had prior to his hospitalization was a fight over stupid trivial things. He died eleven days later and again, like with my mom, no closure and no time to say goodbye. In my belief system (religious choice) we believe there is life after death. That our loved ones wait for us and know our actions before we join them. Thus my husband and my mother must know I love them and how deeply they are missed. All we can do is cling to hope to get us through. Your story was amazing. Thank you for sharing it.
Melanie, yes, I believe as well that there can be emotional closure with those who’ve died, and that this life is not the end.
Sorry for your loss, Mitch. I lost my dad 15 years ago. He was a wall of ice, but I tried my best to chisel through. I would hug him when leaving after a visit and he would stiffen up, not quite sure what to do with the emotional stuff. I wish we could’ve had a closer relationship, but I know he did the best he could. Thanks for this post and encouraging us to try to connect with our dads before it’s too late.
Your efforts were far from wasted, so too the grace behind them.
Yes, I agree. Thanks.
I am so sorry, Mitch, that you lost your dad while still so young. I agree with your mom–your dad knew you loved him every morning you got up at 2:30 with him. And no doubt those three months of wee-hours togetherness brought him much joy.
Thanks, dear Nancy.
what was your father cause of death, & how old was he?
Heart attack at age 45.
why heart attack
We don’t know, Rudy.
Sorry Mitch. This was very heartfelt.
Thank you.
Mitch,
A father and son laughing together is the best magic in the world.
and while speaking of bests, this memorial that you’ve written could
not be surpassed. It radiates love, and it generates heart cleansing
tears for this reader. I am guessing that it will have a similar effect
on all who read it.
Many blessings to you and yours.
Thank you, and likewise, dear Sarah.
Thank you for sharing this deeply personal story, Mitch. I’m sorry you lost your dad so young. Maybe it was from the harsh realities of the Great Depression, but our parents’ generation wasn’t really big on “I love you.” Maybe I’m just trying to make excuses for my never telling my dad I loved him before he died.
Oh, I think you’re right, Bill. The children of the Great Depression demonstrated their love by providing for their offspring. But hugs and words of affection? Not so much.
Somehow my Dad was both – a great provider, but also very demonstrative, to the point where my sister and I would react to his wet kisses with “ew! yuck!” – until we were mature enough to appreciate how sweet and affectionate our dad was. I think it was at least partly because he was the youngest of three boys (picked on?), with no sisters, and when after nine childless years of marriage he finally had two daughters, he was over the moon. <3
Aww. I’m a two-daughters dad, too, and I’ve been accused of acute mushiness at rimes.
Beautiful story! So glad you had 3 months, even if there was no mountain-top experience. You have a very wise mother. She said the exact words you needed to hear. Thanks for sharing. Hetty
Thank you, Hetty. And good to meet you, btw.
Dear Mitch: Thank you for this simple story. I have read your blog off and on for a long time but for me this was the best thing you have ever written. God bless you and thanks again.
Thank you, Pete.
Excellent post, Mitch. Painfully excellent post!
This was so beautifully written. Thank you for sharing your story ❤️
This one really hit me. Definitely a reminder we could all use.
My parents are gone, but my sisters aren’t. I need to make a call. Thank you.
My privilege.
Wonderful heartfelt post. A good reminder for us all.
What a beautifully written tribute to your dad. I’m so sorry you lost him the way you did.
The unspoken love was there. He knew you loved him. Some people don’t need to hear the actual words. It seems your dad didn’t. But he knew you loved him.
What a poignant post. So glad you made that choice to connect with him!
Me too, Kara. Thanks.
<3 Mitch, for such a heartfelt post.
This is a comfort to me. Today, my daddy has been gone twenty one years. Thank you for telling your father story. I’m certain many will tell someone they love them today!
Thank you. I’m so glad it spoke to you, Lisa.
I read this post last night and had no words. I reread it this morning and still no words….simply, beautiful, Mitch! I felt every word you wrote. Hugs to you and prayers for those who have strained or nonexistent relationships with family members.
Thank you, Karyn.
What a beautiful post about the importance of telling our loved ones how we feel about them! I’m so sorry your lost your father so suddenly when you were young. But I agree with your mom: you did tell him, just not in actual words. Thank you again for this powerful reminder!
My privilege, Ann.
Such a beautiful message, Mitch. God bless and comfort. Thanks for the reminder to say the words out loud.
And thank you, Nancy.
Just wonderful, Mitch!
So profound! Thank you,
This was profoundly moving, Mitch. Thank God for your Mom’s suggestion that gave you those three months together, and thank God you listened. I don’t think either were accidents.
I don’t tear up easily, but I did tear up (in a good way) while reading this heartfelt and lovingly crafted post.
I would have never looked at it that way, but your mom was right…“You told him every day for three months.”
Thank you for sharing!
@Mellow_Curmdgeon It does make one think, doesn’t it? Sometimes our lives don’t seem to be simply “random.” Even the agnostic has to ponder things like this.
Indeed,Vernon. It was one of the steps on my journey from atheist to agnostic to believer.
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Wonderful and so true. I lost my Dad to a heart attack in 1996, the day after my 40th birthday. I would give anything to turn back the clock to the Wednesday before so that I could hug him and tell him I loved him before I left the hospital. He had been looking forward to coming home but had another massive heart attack the following day. He never regained consciousness. I was with him and my Mum 16 hours a day, my sister did four hours and my brother did the other four, so that neither Mum nor my Dad were on their own. Mum joined him in January 2018. She was 95 and had dementia. I am confident they are together no in the Garden of Forever.
I miss them both and hope they knew how much I loved them.
Bless you, my friend. The journey continues.
🙂
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Quite powerful! So sorry for your loss & that you were unable to relay that, but given the fact that he had 4 pictures of you in his wallet, he loved you & he knew you loved him. I was estranged from my dad for 12 years when I was a young adult. No matter the reason. It took me that long to forgive him, but once I did, it was good. We saw each other occasionally as we lived on opposite sides of the US. As he was in the last 9 months of his life 4 years ago battling Alzheimer’s, I was glad that we had mended our relationship years earlier & was able to say those 3 simple words. Those last months were most difficult because he was in Hawaii & I was/am in Florida. This was after losing my mom to a major stroke a year earlier, but our relationship was much closer. She was only in Texas & I went out to see her often. We always told each other that we loved each other before hanging up the phone. I do this with my kids & grandkids now. They are constantly told in person, on the phone or on facetime. Praying for you and your mom!
Thank you, Lisa!
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So sorry for your loss Mitch. I can’t possibly understand how you feel because I’m very lucky to still have my parents and I’m almost sixty (sshh, don’t tell anyone). I’m really glad you got to spend time with your dad during those three months Mitch and just like your mom said – you told him you loved him every one of those days. Caz x
Thank you, Caz.
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This really touched me, Mitch. July 20th was my Dad’s birthday. He’s been gone almost 4 years. Never got to say goodbye but I had said everything I wanted to beforehand.
Glad you had some kind of closure, Evelyn, even if not complete. And so sorry for your loss.
this is beautiful , thanks for sharing x
got a 45 dollar bill evelyn
That is the one thing that has gotten me every time. I lost my dad when I was only ten but from then on it was that I never got to say goodbye. The same thing happened suddenly with my husband, One day he goes into the hospital my step-daughter and I leave him to find out what is happening the next day and there was no next day he was gone and never got to say I love you or goodbye. However, our loved ones are near us always and are watching over us and that is how life goes,
They are indeed, Sandra! I still had some unfinished business with my dad, even so, and worked through it years later: https://mitchteemley.com/2018/06/11/do-you-love-me-dad-3/
A well lived story well told. There’s something beautiful about the silent breakfasts; being present as much as one can be that early in the morning; solidifying a memory you didn’t know you would until it is needed to be remembered. Thanks for sharing.
My honor, and thanks, Rusty.
Very touching! This story tells me a lot. It tells me that words sometimes doesn’t carry as much weight as action. We all know the expression ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.” Well action such as picking up newspapers with your dad at the dawn of each day for 3 months is worth a lot more than a thousand words!
Yep. Thanks, Joanne.
What a great post! It can be so hard to cross the divide that seperates generations, but it sounds like you managed to do so quite well. Sorry for your loss.
Thank you.
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Yes yes yes. Every moment matters. Your mother was right — and you did it his way.
Oh and I think we might also use these words: “I know you love me.”
Amen, Rachel.
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Use those words often Mitch, thanks for the back-up reassurance. Sorry for the loss, especially that way. Way back in my young CT State Police days, I made numerous, ” I’m sorry to advise you” notices. Probably the hardest part of my job. Now a volunteer Chaplain in a hospital, back in the saddle again. Peace my friend.
Thank you, you too.
Reblogged this on Adults Entertainment .
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Thank you for sharing your heartfelt story. I am sorry for you and your family’s sudden loss. What a gift that you had time alone with him prior to his passing. 💗
It was indeed, Michele.
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I remember reading this back when you posted it. Reading it again still makes my heart ache.
My father was born on October 10. On the day you posted this, he would have been 85 years old. But he died at the age of 53. A sudden, unexpected death. A heart attack.
Part of why I’m writing a memoir is to try to understand my father, my mother, and myself.
I get that. I have similar motives, Linda.
imagine death at age 28, as for age 60, linda?
Hi, numrhood. How are you? The Lord has saved me from death many times. My first memory in my life was a California earthquake that happened when I was 19 months old. I was scared! But I am still alive, 67 years later. I know that when it is time for me to die, I will go to heaven to be with God and the angels, because the Lord Jesus Christ is my savior.
how long is 44 months & do you remember 61
44 months is 3 years and 8 months. How many days are in 44 months? Yes, I do remember 61. I remember 1961, when I was 8 years old.
multiply 7 × 4
can you multiply 7 × 4 linda
multiply 4 * 7
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Beautiful. And being able to laugh together again is absolutely magical.❤
It is indeed, Natalie.
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