When families face a loved one at the end of their life, unconscious, we often ask, wonder, can Dad hear what we’re saying? I don’t know the answer to that question and I don’t think anybody does. But let me share my story with you if I may.
This past Monday, my father, Bill Hardina, passed away at 82 years old. He had been suffering in pain, with dementia and many other ailments for years. He slipped into unconsciousness about two weeks ago and after the medical experts said he was approaching the end, transported him to Gosnell Hospice Center in Scarborough, who everyone said was a wonderful place ”“ it was. On Sunday evening, I visited him, talked with him, even though he had been entirely unresponsive for about ten days. They had expected him to pass the day before and the day before that. I told him it was okay to let go, that his family loved him and didn’t want him to suffer any longer. I called my brother and sister who live out of state, put them on speaker one at a time and gave them the opportunity to say their parting words to him. I hung up, put my left hand in his, my right hand on his chest and repeated my loving words. One of his eyes was all puffed out and grotesque-looking. In the other, I noticed in the corner of it a tiny tear had formed. I don’t know if he heard my words. Dad had problems with his eyes tearing for years, but I hadn’t seen that since he fell unconscious. But I hope he heard them and I hope they eased his transition from this life to whatever comes after it.
My father was an extraordinary basketball player, world class. He taught me to sing and play the ukulele at six years old and was at least partially responsible for my life long love affair with music. He loved his family and worked very hard to support us. He met his best friend, Ted Ulvan, during his service to our country in the Korean conflict. My father loved Ted like the sibling he never had and always wanted. As Ted has requested, I read these words at dad’s funeral.
I first met Bill in the fall of 1953. We were both stationed in Innsbruck Austria as part of the US occupation forces there. We were both privates but it was apparent that Bill was “into” the military way … Always dressed to perfection, with every button shining.
It wasn’t long before he was introduced to the camp basketball team where he was a standout player. I had the pleasure of playing on the same team (not nearly as good ad Bill). We were called the Camp Rum “Rummies” and went on to tour many other military camps in Germany and Austria, winning big over most of them. He was very proud of this accomplishment. …
And then there was the quartet. Yes, Bill could sing. Four of us organized a quartet and “entertained” children in DP (displaced persons) camps in Austria. He had the best voice.
We also went native and tried to conquer one of the local mountains in the Austrian Alps. I say “mountain”; it was only 2,000 meters but seemed insurmountable to us and right behind our camp. After hours of tortuous climbing we reached the top thinking we had reached a height no one else had reached, only to find old men, women and children who had preceded us there … What a let-down!!
We did play a dirty trick on Bill though, when it came time for his rotation.
When it came time for him to go home, Bill had his orders and was counting down the days and minutes for his trip by train to Livorno, Italy and an awaiting boat (yes, boat) to the states. One of our roommates had access to the message center and he was able to type up a fake message saying the boat was delayed for two weeks. We gave Bill the message and waited for the Hardina temper to erupt, and it did! Cuss words, tipping the bed over, throwing things, and utter rage prevailed until we had to calm him down and confess to a practical joke … He wanted to go home bad.
He was a good soldier and earned the respect of the commanding officer, as well as his fellow soldiers.
After we were returned to the States, we kept in contact via mail and phone, he in Long Island and me in Minnesota, miles apart, but yet there was a bond building there.
Eventually my job took me to Pennsylvania and we finally hooked up at my home on several occasions as well as his home on Long Island.
We’ve maintained contact for over 60 yrs. and always signed our correspondence with YFTTE(your friend to the end).
I will miss him and we were friends to the end.
Rest in Peace, dear friend
And so it goes”¦
Final words: I try to learn as much as I can from my experiences. What I have learned from the loss of my father is that life is short and I better enjoy every day of it. I’ve heard this before, many times, but it never sunk in like it has recently. I shared this revelation with my 11-year-old daughter, Olivia, and hope it helps her as she grieves with the rest of us. I know that I must grieve too, but I also intend to live and I will endeavor to live happily during whatever time I have.
Thanks for reading and have a good week.
— Bruce M. Hardina is the publisher of the Journal Tribune, a singer-songwriter, a philosopher, a student of life and the human experience, a columnist, an entrepreneur and a family man. To comment on his musings, email bhardina@journaltribune.com or mail a note to Journal Tribune, Attn: Bruce Hardina, 457 Alfred St., Biddeford, ME 04005.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
