In Loving Memory of My Father

May 10, 1967 - November 13, 2023

This picture was taken on the day of my brother’s wedding. The wedding was held in my backyard, and as guests were arriving, our power went out.

As some of you may know, my father unexpectedly passed away on Monday, November 13. I honestly still can’t wrap my head around it. The loss of my father is something I never could have imagined, and now that it is my reality, I’m still finding it extremely hard to grasp. What I’ve learned about loss like this is that no one mourns the same. Every single person in my dad’s life, and there were quite a few, behaved differently in the days following his passing. Some cope with humor, some cope with tears, some cope by telling stories of fond memories they shared with my father, and some combine all the aforementioned the coping mechanisms. After his death, my home became a Renaissance painting of emotional extremes. His loved ones piled into my suburban house, almost standing on top of each other. Streams of tears soaked and bellowing laughs echoed. Crock pots, chafing dishes and pastry boxes began to pile on the breakfast bar. Still in shock, I had trouble maintaining conversations and accepting people’s condolences. I wanted to, but my mind and body were refusing to let me. My mind was displaying thousands of thoughts at once, to the point where I had trouble focusing on just one. My brain was telling me to avoid human interaction at all costs, but my heart demanded that I be there for my family. As the days have passed, I have been able to be more social, even if it was against my will. Besides, I didn’t just lose my father. My brothers also lost their dad. My mother lost her husband. My aunts and uncles lost their brother. My cousins lost an uncle. His colleagues lost a coworker. His friends lost a friend. All these people came to celebrate the life of the best man I’ve ever known, and you, the reader, deserve the chance to get to know him as well.

My father Dan was born on May 10, 1967. At the time, he was one of six children. That was, until my Uncle Liam was born twelve years later. He loved his family very much, despite some jealousy of Liam, since he wasn’t the baby anymore. I can relate to those feelings. If my parents had a fourth child, I would be upset for a little bit, but like my dad, I’d grow out of it quickly. He grew up in Canton, Massachusetts where he met my mother in 1983. He called her to ask her on a date when they were fifteen. After she said yes, he responded “Great, I have to go to CCD now.” After the call, my parents never looked back. They have been happily married for thirty-four years. I often look at their relationship fondly. They are concrete proof that true, devoted love exists in this retched world. My dad was around for so long in my mother’s life, that my mom’s family started claiming him as their own.

My parents did everything together. Sure they have great friends, but they spent most of their time with each other. In the late 80’s, their friend Jim was drafted to the Lions. While he was gone and driving his agent’s Porsche or something, he let my parents take his Grey Mustang GT with a T-Top. They would drive around blasting “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins (me and who?). Like many Dads out there, my father’s youth was somewhat of a mystery. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, it was always the most interesting thing I had heard that week. My parents must have told me the story about the Grey Mustang GT with a T-Top about a hundred times. I think that’s when they felt the coolest.

My dad was cool, though, in a mysterious, complex way. When I say complex, I’m not suggesting that we had a complex relationship. He was my best friend, especially in what would now be considered his final months, weeks, and days. My dad was complex the same way a movie is complex. You may not completely understand it at first, but you know you love it.

He commuted to Boston every weekday (and some Saturdays) for over twenty years. I’ve been making the commute for about a week now, and I’m ready to pull my hair out. My dad spent most of his career 10+ stories up, looking down on the hustle and bustle of Boston. He would freeze his ass off in the Winter, and sweat like hell in the Summer. As a result of the elements, and literally never using any skincare, his skin became so preposterously rugged. The only soft skin on him was under his wedding ring, because he never took it off. After a long day, he would sit at our kitchen table and super glue his open cuts closed. A true blue collar legend.

Just a light box-cutter manicure. Don’t let his rough exterior fool you. My dad was exceptionally kind.

I never really understood what he did for work for two reasons. 1) He wore a million hats for the company he worked for. Safety guy, phone guy, field engineer, invoice approvals, risk management, the list goes on. 2) He was a small, but necessary part in the construction of many beautiful skyscrapers that make up the Boston skyline, and building a skyscraper is a very complex business. When people asked what he did for a living, my best answer was, “I don’t really know. Construction in Boston, I guess.”

Fun Fact: I was watching The Departed (2006) a few months ago, when my dad suddenly chimed in to casually mention that he was working on the unfinished building in the background. He verified the story by mentioning that they filmed on Saturday, so no one was around.

Many facets of my dad’s life made him keep his cards close to his chest. Whether it was the culture of his profession, his generation, or his own personal ethics, he never really expressed his deep feelings. He was always a mystery that I would try to solve as I got older. When I was growing up, until the day he passed, I had immense fear of letting my father down. Not because I was scared of him at all, but because he never let anyone down. It wasn’t in his wiring. Maybe he was just anxious, but it never stopped him from always being there for everyone. I believe it drove him to be there for us.

My father and I were always close, but we grew far closer as I got older. After leaving New York, we hung out almost every day. I’m not sure if he fully understood my dream of becoming a writer, but he was still immensely supportive of it. His favorite 1 AM Media piece was “Interview with a Tree”. Not only did he completely and singlehandedly remodel our home, he redid our yard as well. The subject of “Interview with a Tree” is a beautiful V-shaped willow tree at the top of our driveway. I believe he liked it, in part, because my father had a strong sense of pride in his work, and the V-shaped willow was the focal point of our property. The willow represented the hours and dollars my father spent to make our yard look perfect. His reception and appreciation for the piece was one of many cliché “make your father proud” moments in my life. Thankfully, I have these moments to look back on. They act not only as a way for me to feel comforted during this incredibly difficult time, but also as fuel to continue pursuing my dream of being a successful writer, because he believed in me.

Now that some time has passed since November 13th, I have been waiting for the other emotional shoe to drop. I have a sinking feeling it’s going to hit me aggressively. To my surprise, it has been much more of a slow burn. Instead of hitting an emotional wall, it’s more like hitting an emotional brick. Smaller than a wall, but arguably just as painful. When it begins to creep in, I’m reminded of those thousands of day one thoughts that I couldn’t decipher. Except now, every one of those thousand thoughts gets their own time, overstaying their welcome in my consciousness. All my disbelief, doubts, fears, and trauma about the whole situation are finally revealed in great detail. I’m always thinking about my father. While I’m at work, before I go to bed, in my dreams. The past few weeks, I have been expecting a sharp, debilitating pain, but the pain is more like a chronic, nagging, almost subtle pain that never goes away. I know the pain will eventually subside, but it will always be there in one way or another. In the meantime, I’m learning a lot about myself and how I deal with such massive loss.

My father was the fucking best. He is the fucking best. He was funny in a dry cranky blue collar dad way. He was selfless, especially when it came to my mother. He was thoughtful, simple (not stupid, more straightforward), present, and kind to everyone (specifically when he didn’t have to be). I am so beyond thankful and lucky that I have the chance to call him my father.

I miss him like you wouldn’t believe, and I have a feeling I always will. Luckily, despite losing him at a very young age, I am certain that my dad did everything he needed to do as a father. If I’m lucky, I’ll grow up to be just a sliver of the man that he was.

I hope that you all have someone in your life that means as much to you as my father means to me. If you do, tell them you love them.

Until next time.

Thank you all for the kind words and support these past few weeks.

Love you Dad. I’ll see you when I see you.

-Your son, Conor