[6] november 19. the day my soul shattered.

november 19

Sadness doesn't begin to describe the emotions Mom and I are feeling as we wish to inform friends and family that last night, my extraordinary Dad departed from this world and passed peacefully in his sleep. But amongst the grief and shock, there is a silver lining of relief. Relief for a man who suffered in the end. Relief hoping he's reunited with his beloved son and mother. There's something poetic that his life began in quaint East Aurora, NY and his life ended in the equally quaint Spencerport hospice named The Aurora House. Dad's story came full circle. 

Last night at the House, Mom and I had put on the first half of the Bills game and held his hand, went home for a quick dinner, and I had the same hand on the doorknob to return to his side when we received the phone call. I had started Abbey Road, his all time favorite album for him as I walked out after my mom, and he passed before the disc had played through. There's some comfort knowing that. 

Dad passed at halftime of the game, and in a bit of comic relief, we've noted that he just couldn't stick around and see the horrific outcome of his beloved team. We're grateful he saw some impressive games in the beginning of the season. But for this one, he checked out early, normally against his steadfast conviction of never leaving a game before completion. "It's not over til it's over" he would lament. 

Dad stood fiercely by so many convictions. When the NBA eradicated the Buffalo Braves so long ago, he never watched a pro basketball game again. When his fave spaghetti sauce re-homed their headquarters and cost several Rochestarians their jobs, he never had a taste of Ragu again. And for decades, he would ask me to exit the kitchen as he added the "secret ingredient" into the apple cider to transform it into witches brew as we carved pumpkins. The cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving had to be from a can, and stand on its own with creases or else it wasn't worthy of a Ragan holiday. He refused to use a riding lawnmower or a snowblower, as he genuinely enjoyed mowing and shoveling and would never allow my mom or me or neighbors make it easier on him. Dad never took a single, solitary sick day in his entire life. He created a penalty box out of a laundry basket and a Stanley cup out of foil to showcase his love of the sabres. Before OJ Simpson was a felon, Dad would have me bow down to him on the TV screen. He would leave snacks for me and my friends with a note signed "the phantom" and then deny he was said phantom. Steve Ragan was certainty brimming with quirks. 

We saw the quirks fade and the determined spirit transform gravely over the past weeks in a way that a young daughter should never have to see from the father she so revered. A wife should never have to watch helplessly and become a loving widow at age 59. I commend those of you who have ever sat bedside in a hospice. It was heart-wrenching . But we never stopped holding his hand, just as he would have done for us. 

Dad is the singlehanded last person who would ever want any of you to be sad on his behalf. If he were here, he would likely go around and apologize to everyone who has cried tears over his untimely passing. Throughout this awful disease, he would continuously check on me and mom to make sure we were doing okay, even on his worst days. He was an incredulously doting husband and father. And he would want us all to carry on. As I type this, I'm riding shotgun with my best friend heading to a concert in Pittsburgh. The Dad who had his first seizure back in January indicating something was severely wrong who continued to host a poker party for friends that night raised the daughter who lost her favorite person and continued on to a show she's been looking forward to with friends tonight. 

10 months and 4 days he lived with this diagnosis, but I knew time was growing short when he ultimately shared with me the secret ingredient to the witches brew very recently. It was a heartwarming moment but we all knew the end was near. I promised to sprinkle cinnamon (dad, that was a pretty obvious one) into my cider forever and to always walk around the block to admire the Christmas lights as we always did. I said I would return to Liverpool and do all of the Beatles things he has always dreamed of. Mom and I promised to go to a Grateful Dead and Co. show next month in his honor. I promised to try to write professionally, which my parents have always wanted for me. Most importantly, we promised that we would be okay. There's going to be an empty place at our Thanskgiving table in a few days where a healthy and vivacious father sat merely one year ago. I'm not sure if the cranberry with ridges will be consumed this year but it'll be there, Dad. 

As will our love and admiration for the best Dad to ever grace this world with his presence. We're holding calling hours next Wednesday and a beautiful, Beatles- filled service on Thursday the 30th, followed by a luncheon to toast a Genny beer to Dad. More details to follow. 

Dad, you didn't quite make it to the hundred years that you promised me. We had so, so much to do still. But the impact you've created is eternal. I'll miss you and there will be a hole in my heart impossible to fill for the rest of my life. But I'm overwhelmingly grateful for the person and parent you were to me and Jeremy, the husband you were to mom, and the friend you were to so many. Your legacy will never flounder. 

Dad would always marvel at the power of airplanes. He would say, "it fascinates me that in the morning you can be one place and in the afternoon a completely different place." Well Dad, it devastates me that yesterday afternoon you were in Spencerport and by evening you were in a completely different place. But I hope that place is beautiful and angelic and radiant and you're surrounded by those we've lost. I hope that where you are is truly tremendous, your favorite descriptive word embodying your positivity. And I hope that just like Lucy, you're in the sky with diamonds. 

With heartbreak and relief and eternally imperishable love,
Your little girl 

"And in the end,
The love you take,
Is equal to the love you make"