Normally in February, I’d use this column to talk about love or the unreasonable demands of Valentine's Day during hibernation season and Black History Month. I’d say something funny like it’s hard to feel sexy when your skin hasn’t seen daylight in three months and every pair of underwear you own looks like a thong because you’re still packing that Christmas weight on both cheeks. By the way here are some chocolates and soon-to-be-dead flowers. Love you.

That would be funny, but this year I’m going to do something different. You see, very early Christmas morning my Dad died of an unexpected heart attack. I say it was unexpected, but the truth is my Dad was early to EVERYTHING (apparently even to dying). We used to hedge bets on when he would arrive at our house on any given visit. If you agreed on 8 am, you could count on him at 7 am. We joked that he likely got to Heaven before the gates were open on Christmas… just to beat the holiday crowd.

African Bishop Desmond Tutu also died on Christmas Day. I imagine the two of them filling out their paperwork and going through orientation at the same time. Dad would likely ask too many questions about the schedule, the heavenly homeowners association (HHA), and Angel flight patterns; and Tutu would laugh gleefully and say how much he “really likes this guy.” And then my Dad would ask David George (Nurse Susan George Dunkleberger’s Dad) where he could get a diet Coke…since he got there two days before my Dad did.

In the days and weeks that followed losing Dad, I was left with a number of observations about death. I thought maybe we could talk about a few of them. (Wow, that does sound fun in the bleak midwinter.)

My first observation is that for most of us when someone dies, you get about an hour. One hour (or less) to be shocked, dismayed, hurt, or whatever other flood of emotions might come; and then you have to get on with the “business of death”. There are people to call and notify, choices to make about organ donations and funeral homes, paperwork to sign and parking to validate. That business is rudely pressing and mercifully distracting. As a result, your mourning tends to leak out over the subsequent days and weeks and months. All in all, that’s probably helpful.

Second, losing a parent puts you into a very big club - like it or not. I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and sympathy following the news of my Dad’s passing. And rampant in those messages were those who joined the club before me, many of whose forced enrollment came with eerily similar details: suddenly on a holiday at an age way too young for all involved.

I observed that losing someone (like most experiences in life) is all about the stories (new and old). There’s the story of my Dad smiling and winking at my Mom before he was loaded into the ambulance… where he later died on the way to the hospital. Then there were all the stories from his three sons about growing up “under” Dad. The stories were so thick and funny that it made it difficult to actually make the arrangements for Dad’s service while we sat in the funeral home. (I’m sure the staff was as amused as we were.)

Since my Dad’s death, I’ve taken an increased interest in my own health. I’ve lived an incredibly fortunate life when it comes to health. Until two years ago, I’d never even had a broken bone. I’ve had no life-altering sickness (outside of about with high cholesterol which has estranged me from red meat). But now I see so many with a sorta reckless abandonment when it comes to what and how much they eat. I know how hard it is, but I wonder how many of us are trading years for calories. So as much as your health is in your hands, do what you can. Drop the pounds, take the walk, get the check-ups; let the sugar, cigarettes, and carbs go.

Over that last week in December leading up to the funeral, I thought how wonderful it is to live your life in such a way that people will miss you when you’re gone. Sure, when you die your friends and family are going to canonize you - they’ll talk about the good and not so much the bad. But I want to inspire my Daughter (and be hard to replace for my Wife…should I go first…which she’s certain I will…and that’s unsettling…like she’s making plans…sorta like when she introduces me as her “first husband” now at parties).

My Dad did a lot to make people miss him before he went to meet Bishop TuTu. He left his relationships better. He mended fences, gave graces and his gentleness encouraged you to give him the same. He let his beliefs and faith influence his responses and choices, instead of just letting them be a ritual. The end result was he left things in a good place.

That led me to this observation - none of us knows what this day will bring. So if you’ve got business to take care of, do it. Who needs to know that you love them, that you’ve forgiven them, or want their forgiveness? Who needs to know that you care for them over politics or religion, over right vs wrong, over catsup vs mustard? Don’t assume they know. That’s cruel and cowardly. Make it clear.

One of the highlights of the funeral weekend was a great family reunion that occurred. All eight of my Mom’s siblings and all three of my Dad’s sisters were there. It was wonderful to hug and kiss each one of them along with cousins and friends. Death prioritizes your life. Suddenly headlines and political parties and divides didn’t matter. And in light of that, maybe we shouldn’t care about them like we do. You can’t take it with you - so maybe just leave it alone. It all feels so trivial at this moment. I guarantee none of it’s on Dad’s mind anymore.

My last observation, I think, is that I can’t actually afford to die. I mean literally. I sat with my Mom and brothers as they went through the “Checklist” at the funeral home. Every line was punctuated with a dollar sign. Remember the term “dirt cheap”? That’s not accurate anymore, just ask the cemetery. Six feet of dirt can kill ya.

I know this stuff can be a little heavy for February. Thanks for letting me leave it here. I like that my Dad’s lasting legacy is that we should all take care of our business while we still can. Don’t wait. Don’t let things go unsaid.

I love you. There I said it.

OK. I’ll see you next month my friends.