At 6:40 PM on Thursday, September 13, 2007, my father, Andrew W. Smith, died due to complications from an advanced case of small cell Lung Cancer. He was 68 years old. First diagnosed just four weeks ago, his health rapidly declined as the disease metastisized. Thankfully, he was in extreme pain for less than 48 hours, and he saw all of the folks he had hoped to see before he passed.
UPDATE: Mom has reminded me of a few jobs dad was proud of, and a few plays that Dad performed in.
UPDATE 2: I've added a letter from my Uncle
I had to leave the hospice for a half an hour to rush home and find a list of phone numbers. My sister left 5 minutes later to go to the local grocery store to pick up the makings for a picnic lunch for those of us planning to spend the time until the end with him. As my mother stood up to walk a friend to the door that was visiting, he took his last breath. My mother heard him stop breathing, turned around grabbed his hand and called his name. He opened his eyes, exhaled, and then closed his eyes and passed away. We really believe that he waited long enough for us all to be away from him before he died, so that he might shield us from that moment. As the minister from my church who had been there a hour prior to that said, he was making a deal with god, and the two of them took a little while to broker the deal. Once that was done, it was just about waiting for the right time.
A friend wrote this poem to my mother moments before he left on his journey to the next great adventure:
in time of confusion, we pray for your peace;
in time of stress, we pray for your calm.
we're so sad to know you are discomforted,
and hope that our prayer will find its way to Him,
and He will comfort you.
Bless Andy for the gallant fight;
bless you for your courage,
and bless the children who hold both of you in their loving hearts.
Know that he will not soon be forgotten,
and that you will be held up by those who care----
So here's my obituary to my father, whom I loved with my whole heart. I miss you, dad, but I know you're in a far better place now, free from pain and suffering, and you'll await the rest of us until we eventually join you in the next life.
_______________________________________________
My father was not a "great" man. But he was, perhaps the finest man I have ever had the pleasure to know.
My father wasn't always right. But he stood firm in his convictions, and backed everything he had up.
My father was a minister first. But he didn't always work at a church. He tended bar for a decade -- "when you've got trouble," he'd say, "you're going to talk to one of three people: your minister, your psychiatrist, or your bartender. I can do just as much good work here as I can behind the altar."
He was also, at various times, a chimney sweep, a house painter, a counselor for the Bureau of Vocational Rehabilitation, a substitute English and History teacher at an inner-city middle school, a teacher of World Religions at a Community College, and, most recently, a prep cook at an Outback Steakhouse.
He also was a damn fine actor, earning local awards in the 1980's for leading roles in shows including Sweeney Todd, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, Company, Evita, The Iceman Cometh, Golden Boy, Working, The Father series by August Strindberg, Our Town and many others. He also dabbled in play writing, creating manuscripts for church theaters based on the book of Jeremiah, and the teachings of Saint Augustine, as well as a children's musical based on the story of Jonah. His last project was to convert all of the Psalms into choral readings, meant for groups from 5 to 5,000, wherein everyone involved participated in the reading of the psalm, but in a lyrical, cooperative call-and-response way. Eventually I will be producing PDFs of his work for download by clergy and music directors to use in place of standard single-reader scripture lessons.
When he wasn't acting, he loved to volunteer at Cain Park, a local theater and arts center where he was a fixture, always helping more than he had to and helping teach new volunteers about how things were done there.
He was born in Bellingham, WA, the youngest child of four to Dwight C. Smith, a Congregationalist minister and Josephine M. Smith, a nurse, social worker and author. As a young boy, the family moved first to Boston, then to New York City, where he attended Horace Mann School.
Upon graduation from Horace Mann, my father received a scholarship and attended Oberlin College where he studied Sociology, and met his future wife (and my mother,) Carolyn. They met as members of the famed Oberlin Choir, and the two served on the school's alumni council for the last ten years.
After Oberlin, my father took his new bride to Chicago, where he received his Masters Degree in Divinity at the Chicago Theological Seminary, where he was ordained a minister in the United Church of Christ. I also happened to be born around this time.
During the '60s, my father worked at a number of small churches throughout northeast Ohio, and also became involved in the anti-war movement. While not a leading organizer or ground-shaker, he did speak out against the Vietnam conflict from the pulpit, and attended many a rally and event. He also was a strong supporter of the Civil Rights movement, something he believed was demanded of him by his heritage, being a direct relative of abolitionist Henry Ward Beecher and noted author Harriet Beecher Stowe.
A proud small-"d" democrat, my father was passionate about progressive politics and supported many a progressive candidate. He also was a voracious reader, and often tuned in to Dailykos, He rarely if ever commented, but he knew what we were doing here, and thought the world of what we might accomplish.
Those interested in making a donation or a memorial are asked to choose from the following choices:
We'd appreciate gifts to the Hospice of the Western Reserve, who have treated our entire family with the utmost respect and professionalism.
Classmates and Alumni of Oberlin College can make a gift in his name to the Oberlin College Conservatory
Those wishing to help my mother can contact the Euclid Avenue Congregational Church
UPDATE:
I received this letter from my Uncle Dwight today:
Carolyn called us on August 17th, to give us the news about Andy's cancer diagnosis, including his decision regarding treatment and the doctor's first estimate that he had "6 months to a year" to go. I called back later, and Andy reiterated what Carolyn had said and expressed his contentment with the decision he had made. I agreed with him then, but the import of it did not really sink in.
Two days later, Sunday the 19th, we were in church and listened to a sermon based on Hebrews 12 - "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...." The sermon ended with a question for us: who is in your cloud? [The preacher at this point referred at length to the portion (pp.698-703) of Chapter 34 in the final Harry Potter book: it's a wondefully inspired contemporary treatment of the Hebrews passage.] As we were going home I thought Yes, that's a good question: but more challenging is the next one -- In whose cloud might I be found? Pieces of thought were starting to come together.
Two more days later I was at a church meeting when someone referred to St.Paul's reminder (in I Thessalonians, for those who like to look these things up) that "you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night." That was too close for comfort. My thoughts coalesced and I decided that we should visit Andy sooner, not later, to start a conversation on the general topic of: What would you want me to say at your memorial service? That sounds like a blunt way to talk, but I figured (correctly, as it turned out) that Andy would be responsive to it.
Rachel and I drove out from Albany, NY to Cleveland on Friday, September 7. I spent Saturday morning with Andy. It was a great experience for both of us. We hadn't had that sustained and deep a conversation before due, in large part, to the fact taht we share parents and other family history behind them, but not much else. I was 8 1/2 years old when Andy was born, and our childhoods were quite different. He didn't share experiences that our older sister and I had before he was born; I left for college when he was in 3rd grade and so I missed his bringing up. Our conversation started with some reflections on that, and it was natural for us to move from there into faith questions that I had on my mind, the responses to which we share. From our separateness we moved into a new level of togetherness. The conversation was a drain on Andy's stamina then, but he was pleased (as was I) for the conversation. I left him to nap. We got together later that evening, not to talk but to watch ESPN.
I have only one regret. I had brought with me the obituary that our father had written for himself in 1978, seven years before he died (this was a class exercise at a Western Gerentological Society workshop that he and our mother had attended). It's interesting, in part because of its third-person style. I told Andy about it on Saturday morning, but I didn't have it in hand. I recounted a bit of the language that I could remember -- the gist of it -- but didn't retrieve the document because it was obvious that Andy was ready to nap. In any event, I figured that I would show it to him the next time we visited. After all, there was no reason to try to compress everything into one chat when I would see him again in a few weeks.
Rachel and I returned home on Sunday, saying to Andy as we left, "See you the end of October." We knew that he was weak, but he looked better than we thought he might. We had good conversations among us, and we had no sense that he was so close sliding away.
But I am now left with an obituary that could just as well have been Andy's. Our father was also a UCC minister, and Andy was obviously from the same stock. Here's what our Dad said, 29 years ago: does it fit today?
"Dwight (substitute, if you wish, Andy) Smith told me, not long ago, that when death came to him he would probably be inclined to ask it why it took so long in arriving.... He enjoyed his life through all those years and said he had no great feeling of having left unfinished business. In his later years his only concern at the prospect of death was that he wanted to attend to it "decently and in order," as the familiar phrase puts it.
"Knowing that this was his feeling, we certainly are not going to bemoan his passing. He looked upon death as so truly a part of the total life process, that he actually felt a sort of expectancy and zest at the prospect of finding out "what's next?" So we can be glad for his sake that the end of this chapter has happened, and now he does know what's next.
"Meanwhile, we who have known him and appreciated him can properly thank God for that privilege. He was a good friend and the sort of person, most of the time, that it was fun to be with. In his professional life as a minister, as general secretary of the John Milton Society for the Blind [the position our father held while Andy was growing up], and as a teacher in adult education in his so-called retirement years, he brought inspiration and hope to more people than he himself could ever count. He was concerned about justice and decent treatment for those who were less able to care for themselves and those whom they loved. He refused to be over-awed by established institutions or organizations. Indeed, he felt a continuing obligation to challenge any pretences or claims of authority if it tried to dominate others. And this sort of skepticism toward self importance on the part of others he tried to apply to himself as well. He did not commonly like to laugh at others, but he enjoyed laughing with them."
--Dwight Smith Jr
I think that says it, in a nutshell, Uncle Dwight. Especially the last line. That, in one sentence, sums up my father to a "T".