My Father-in-Law

In February of this year, we lost Doug’s father. This morning I was missing him, remembering his weekly phone calls, and the way he’d say, “Well hello, is this Heather? How’s Heather?” He was boisterous in his enthusiastic greeting, the smile on his face came straight through the phone line. His calls were routine. Next he’d ask about the weather, followed by questions about Doug and the boys. 

As far as father-in-laws go, I was relatively close to mine. He and I talked often, as I was usually the one who answered the phone. Most years we visited Roy and Doug’s mother, Charlotte, at least once, sometimes twice. Or they’d come to see us, in California when we lived there, and then in Colorado. As they both aged, Roy in particular, the visits became more infrequent. He had an adverse reaction to the altitude.

When Doug and I were planning our wedding, Doug asked me if I wanted his father to walk me down the aisle. My sweet, sweet husband . . . his thoughtfulness . . . thinking about it brings me to tears. I’ve always loved this photo, because when I look at it, it’s how I feel . . . loved.

I can hear his laugh and see the look on his face when I close my eyes. And I miss him so.

Both Doug’s parents have a way about them . . . they manage to stay involved in the lives of their children, and grandchildren, but never impose. They’re amazingly supportive, yet never intrusive. I don’t know if I have the self-discipline or whatever it is that allowed them to be that way. I hope I learn how to do it, because I admire it so much.

Roy was generous to a fault, funny, charming, and . . . obstinate. He wanted things the way he wanted them. Period. I remember one of the first times he visited Doug, and I made dinner. He asked me to get strawberries, a favorite of his. I prepared them the same way my grandmother always did, sliced and sprinkled with a little sugar, similar to how they’re served with strawberry shortcake. He pulled me aside after dinner and explained the way he liked them. Not sliced. Just strawberries. I got it. He wasn’t rude about it. Not at all. It was just his way. 

Early on I admired the relationship he had with Doug’s mom. He treated her with respect, checked with her, asked how she was doing, what she thought about things, took her places that meant something to her, recognized things she enjoyed. If this was the example of marriage Doug grew up with, I knew he’d be a good husband. I wasn’t wrong.

Roy did a lot for Doug and me. He helped us get our first house, and helped us so many other times when the road was rocky. He gave advice freely . . . when asked. He’d tread lightly though.

When we opened the art gallery, he and Charlotte came to visit. Much of Doug’s art hung on the walls, and pride shown brightly on their faces. “It’s one of my biggest regrets,” he said that night, and other times through the years. “That I didn’t recognize Doug’s artistic abilities earlier, and nurture it more.”   

He had a stroke shortly after Christmas. When the phone call came, I told Doug not to wait. If his mother or brothers told him to come see his dad, he should get on the next flight. I know that all too well. They did, and Doug asked me to go with him. I’m so glad we went. It was the last time we saw him.

What I’ll remember about that trip is how hard he was trying to overcome the stroke’s effects. When Charlotte got her long, long hair cut short for the first time in all the years I’ve known them, he beamed at her. And although he struggled with speech, he managed to tell her how good she looked. I had to turn away, I could not contain my tears. 

Later, watching my husband shave his father’s beard is another memory I will hold dear, as I know he will. The love that flowed between the two of them was palpable. Seeing the son caring for the father, giving in a way he could, when he wasn’t sure what else he could do . . . moments like those are priceless.

There are other memories I am so glad we have. The first time the entire family was together in years was our wedding. Then again the summer after Doug’s oldest brother’s wedding, when we all gathered in Pennsylvania for a summer reunion. As summers are in Pennsylvania, it was hot and humid. Regardless, he asked me to make one of his favorite meals—much better suited to cooler weather. Grandpa’s Stew we call it, and always will. I made it every time they came to visit. He told everyone that day it was “the perfect meal,” as far was he was concerned. His daughter-in-law beamed.

Another thing he liked to talk to me about was our shared Lutheran heritage. I heard many stories about his Uncle Luther. Roy’s grandfather, Henry, was an orphan. Doug has worked hard the last couple years to see if he could find Henry’s parents. We determined they likely died in the cholera epidemic, but we have no concrete proof of who they were. I know Doug wishes he could’ve found them before his father died, but I’m sure it meant a lot to Roy to know how hard he was trying to.

Grief doesn’t operate on a schedule. There may be stages, but there isn’t a timeline. It hits us when it hits us . . . I’ve written about that so many times before. Today, it hit me hard . . . there isn’t an explanation for it. It just is.

My father-in-law was a good man. He loved his family, and worked hard to provide for them and future generations. I miss him. A lot.