The Philadelphia Inquirer, Sunday, Sept. 14, 2014, Front Page, Page C2:
Don't miss chance to tell someone you love them
Patricia Pompilio with her daughter, Natalie, in 2013. Tricia Pompilio
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Natalie Pompilio is a freelance writer in Philadelphia
I actually wrote the original version of this column in mid-July. I built it around a family trip to the Shore - my parents, my husband, my sister and her family - and it was basically a love letter to my father.I shared stories of the many wacky things he does, some purposefully comical and others not. I laughed so hard during that trip I cried. I noted that it might seem strange to write something like this without a "news peg," such as Father's Day, but I didn't want to wait 11 months. We shouldn't wait for special days or months to say "I love you."
I mentioned how I'd been inspired by Louis Misko, a terminally ill California man I'd written about for another publication.
So that was the column. I ended with, "I learned something from Misko: If you love someone, tell them. Now, not later. I can write about my father and all he means to me whenever I want and it's always appropriate. And if we don't have another Father's Day together, at least I'll know he saw this and knew how much I loved him."
Then, on July 18, my mother died.
It was unexpected. She went to bed on Thursday evening and never woke up. All I could think about was how, during the week before, I kept telling myself, "I've got to call Mom." But things I thought were more important came first. I decided I'd make time to call her on Friday morning.
Instead, I spent Friday morning in a car speeding to my parents' home in North Jersey. I talked to Mom but she didn't hear me. I felt feverish and I pressed my warm forehead against her cold one as the man from the Medical Examiner's Office packed up his things. I thought I could warm her up. I kept thinking, "But I'm going to call you later."
"Don't wait," I wrote in the column about my dad. But I didn't take my own advice. I'd waited, for just a few days, and I missed the chance to say goodbye to Mom.
If I'd had some warning, I would have followed Misko's lead and thrown some prepassing parties. He had two gatherings: One was in San Diego, where he and his wife had lived for many years. The other was in New Orleans, where he'd attended college and was a short drive for his family in Mississippi. Friends who couldn't attend sent letters or even video clips.
One clip that particularly moved Misko came from a former coworker named Fran. She was originally unhappy when told she would be working with him, she said, considering him an arrogant jerk. Instead, she concludes on film, Misko was "one of the kindest, most intelligent, giving people I've ever known. I'm going to miss you so much."
Before he died just a few days shy of his 65th birthday, Misko had also learned how his relationship with his wife had inspired one friend to believe in love again after a rough relationship. A cousin said he'd become an engineer so he could be more like Misko, and that career choice had radically improved his life. An acquaintance thanked him for a timely job recommendation that helped launch her career.
Misko had no idea he'd impacted so many lives. When we spoke after the New Orleans event, he choked up relating these stories. He didn't realize how he was inspiring those around him at that very minute. As a close friend of Misko's told me later, "It's strange to see someone with such strength in his darkest hours. That's his legacy to his friends and family: 'I'm leaving, but everything will be all right.' It's better than anything else you can do."
I didn't get a final chance to tell my mother how I felt about her. Instead, I told the mourners at her funeral. I started the eulogy by describing a talk she and I once had:
A few years ago, my sister and I took my mother to her high school reunion. I helped her fill out a form for the class directory. The question was something like "What are you most proud of?"
She said, "My children."
I said, "Really? You can't think of anything better?"
But that's how Mom was.
Amazingly, I did not cry during that speech in front of dozens of friends and family members in the New Jersey church where my sister had gotten married. I choked up only toward the end, when I said then what I've been saying for the last 800 words:
"It's incredibly hard for me to imagine life from now on. I can't believe we won't be able to tease her and then hear her say, 'You kids,' as she pretended to be upset with us but was actually loving the attention. She knew we loved her. I just wish I had the chance to say that to her one more time. If you have that chance, to say that to someone you love today, please do so in her memory."
nataliepompilio@yahoo.com
Read more at http://www.philly.com/philly/opinion/20140914_Don_t_miss_chance_to_tell_someone_you_love_them.html#UPj0vkhlvUTjtcM7.99
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