Cheers to Root Beer and Books: My Father’s Final Chapter Still Speaks to the Heart

Every Labor Day, I’m transported back to my father’s final month of life in 2008—not by grief, but by gratitude for the humanity and grace that surrounded him in his last days. Though he passed away that October, Labor Day marks the moment his health took a turn, and when the small acts of compassion from doctors, paramedics, and even wheelchair transporters became a quiet chorus of kindness that carried our family through.

That September afternoon, I arrived at my parent’s senior living community armed with burgers and sweet corn fresh off the grill, potato squares with sausage, homemade lemon bars, a six-pack of root beer, and balancing plastic lawn chairs and a basket of mums. Every year, for several decades, our Labor Day ritual was attending Irish Days in Long Grove... I knew my dad was really sick when my mom phoned to take a rain check.

But I was determined to take the Labor Day party outside. My plan was to coax my dad out of bed with my snazzy farmer’s market fixings and transform their teeny patio into an outdoor paradise.

The idea for sun and sizzle quickly fizzled. I held my dad’s hand as the paramedics hoisted him off the couch and onto the stretcher. I remember assuring my parents all would be well, as I asked the men in uniform if they needed me to carry the oxygen tank. It was I who got the reassuring “Thanks, but no thanks,” one of the paramedics smiled. “We’ve got the oxygen thing covered in the ambulance.”

“I’ve Got Your Books, Dad”

Desperate to be helpful and protect my dad and mom, I remember locking the door, and then unlocking it and racing back into the room to snag my dad’s reading glasses and the pile of library books off the coffee table. “I’ve got your books dad.” I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I needed to bring his books. I thought if he had his books, he would be okay.

Fast forward a month to early October 2008. It is just around 7 p.m. and the sun is starting to set outside the window of the ICU room on the 5th floor of Hinsdale Adventist Hospital... The CT scan has revealed the reason for my dad’s last three years of torment: He has stage four lung cancer.

Earlier that morning, his primary physician—team leader of six specialists—got down on his knees, held my dad’s hands, and said: “I’m sorry, Paul. I am sorry.” “Sepsis. Hospice,” the words I remember the doctor whispering.

The next day, a parade of hospital workers—Robert, the ICU charge nurse; doctors, respiratory specialists, CNAs and the guy who transported my dad to his X-rays and tests who bonded with my dad over the Chicago Cubs, came to say their farewells. A year later, when I was doing a book signing... Robert was one of the first person’s standing in line.

The June when I was 21... I remember answering the pink princess phone: “Mary, can you do me a favor?” my dad asked. It was midday. He was at the commuter train station. He was 55, and after 30 years at the same insurance company, had just been told his job was no longer.

I drove to the train station. There he stood in his blue pin-striped suit, juggling a cardboard box, a shopping bag, and his briefcase, with his library book tucked under his arm.

Thirty years later, my dad asked me for a second favor: “Mary, would you read to me?” For the next week... I bent over his bed and read from the pages of The Bourne Sanction, and swabbed his mouth with root beer.

My father, Paul went home to—as he called it—“God’s Heaven” on October 3, 2008, at 3:30 p.m., in his home, held in the love of his children, my mom, and his grandchildren—with his book in his hands. All day, the hospice nurse kept saying, “This was it.” But my dad hung on and waited. Five minutes after my college-aged son Thomas drove three hours from his university to my dad’s bedside, we said our final goodbyes to “Pa.”

Writing the Story of a Life

During that last day, I hope that he realized (and would have loved to know), the sun was shining, friends from the retirement community stopped by, and his favorite songs (including the Notre Dame Fight Song...) played throughout the course of the day.

I wrote his obituary for The Chicago Tribune. Like my father, I read books always—and I write books now to make a living. The gift he gave me has become both avocation and vocation, a lifeline that kept me financially afloat while raising three teens on my own.

The obituary gives only a small glimpse of a man who epitomized selflessness and embraced the simple pleasures of life. He had several passions, books, golf, singing, and making every day “a little Christmas” for others.

The image of my dad I will carry in my heart forever was him always carrying two bags—one in each hand—with food or clothing for "the poor." The trunk of my parents' car was always filled with gifts they had for others, often my children, and always, always for "the poor." And of course, a book tucked under his arm when he would come to babysit for my kids, so I could go live one of his dreams and write for a newspaper.

In his 80s, while volunteering to count money at Old St. Patrick’s Church in Chicago, my dad’s voice was discovered by the choir director, Bill... who invited him to perform with the church choir and the Metropolis Symphony Orchestra. Decked out in a tux, he made his singing debut at Symphony Center in Chicago.

Little Blue Notebook

Years later, while helping my mother pack up some of my father’s things, we made several discoveries... But “it” was resting on the top of the sock drawer: I spotted the only thing I wanted—the little blue notebook.

It contains, in his writing, a list of hundreds and hundreds of books—authors listed in alphabetical order—that he had read in his last few years. And in the back of the notebook, there’s a list of books he wanted to read. Dozens of them. They were my dad’s next adventures.

These days, I carry his little blue notebook, along with his greatest dreams – that his children and his grandchildren (and now three great grandchildren he never got to meet) would find a little bit of Christmas blessing in each day. We do, always.

This Labor Day, I am thankful for my father’s legacy, for the liberating gift of reading and writing that now carries us all, and for the promise of what lies ahead for me: more pages in the notebook with hundreds and hundreds of recommended reads. Cheers dad, to root beer and books!