Bradley Don Reasons passed away on October 9, 2013 due to kidney, lung and bone cancer. He left behind four adoring children and one amazing grandchild.
He was my father and I miss him like crazy every day.
I have been tasked with finding an adequate phrase for his tombstone and I, for once, am at a loss for words. How do I sum up the life of a unique man who died too soon? How do I justify his death, and make my siblings feel satisfied with the words inscribed in marble three feet above the ashes of the man we called "dad?"
Actually, due to my fascination with the musical Wicked, I called him "Popsickle."
My dad's father passed away when he was just five years old. His mother had to work full time to support her four young children. He apparently was sickly as a child, but he never talked about it. He was the class clown in high school- I knew this between the combination of my dad's constant witty yet occasionally inappropriate remarks and the many comments scrawled in his high school yearbook.
He married my mother at 19 and was a father by the age of 20. Two more children later, his idealistic wife left him after he paid for her college education and the male "tutor." The fruits of the "tutoring" were a series of nude paintings of my mother that revealed my mother's infidelity and led to a messy divorce and custody issues. Years of cloak-and-dagger kid exchanges in parking lots followed, with no looks or words exchanged between the two of them.
My mother taking his beloved children away was the crowning blow in a betrayal that would affect him the rest of his life. Five years later he had a nearly fatal brain aneurysm that took his ability to hold down a regular job, and remember short term details or the names of every guy I dated. This happened shortly after the birth of my half sister Amber, and a brief marriage to my stepmonster.
Single and unemployable, my dad began volunteering at Meals on Wheels. With his passion for cooking and food, he loved to help out in the kitchen and chatting with all of the elderly guests and volunteers. I had never seen him happier. He was reasonably healthy and loved stopping by to bring me lunch twice a week from Sonic while on his deliveries. If I had known I was going to lose my dad at the young age of 58, I would have treasured these lunches much, much more than I did. Occasionally I saw them as an inconvenience- while all my peers were going out to lunch and gossiping about office coworkers and getting ahead with the bosses, I was stuck in the conference room eating a sonic burger and tots with my dad. I was young, and didn't appreciate what I had at the time.
Sadly, the meals on wheels operation pulled out of the area and dad no longer had his daily routine and adult interaction. I think this sudden dose inactivity was not good for him, and he spent most days on the couch watching the news or doing crosswords.
The ray of sunshine that entered his life came in the form of his first grandchild- a smiling, happy and supersmart granddaughter, London. He began occupying his time cooking for her, playing with her and taking her to the play area at every fast food place in the area. His all-encompassing love for his children extended threefold for his grand baby. I saw him cry for only the second time in my life when she was born (the first was when he saw me as Glinda in The Wizard of Oz); he was so overcome with emotion he had to leave the hospital room. He also shared a special bond with my grouchy pug, Einstein, who would sit on no one's lap but my dad's.
When I started dating Jason, it was not long before my dad was working on him to propose sooner rather than later. He and my step-dad ambushed him over donuts and even tried to convince him to stop by the hardware store on the way home and make a ring out of a nail. He was probably already sick then, and I am devastated we didn't catch it.
In spite of the pressure by my dad and step-dad that fateful brunch, Jason proposed a few months later. One month before our wedding, my father fell and hurt is arm. Thinking he simply pulled a muscle, and helped a lady install a dish disposal the next day. When his arm was still bothering him a few weeks later, my brother forced him to go to the local clinic to get it checked out. They gave him painkillers and sent him on his way.
I happened to be down for the weekend and, preoccupied with wedding planning, spent little time with my dad. We had a funny back-and-forth exchange in the car after lunch, but that was it. He was tired, and I was picking on him, trying to witty and utterly failing.
I drove home the next day, only to turn around and drive right back after receiving "the call" from my older brother. Dad had cancer. He had broken his arm because his bones had been weekend by the spreading disease that was rapidly taking over his body. The small town hospital was not prepared to handle a case as advanced as his and my determined brother was not willing to give up hope. An ambulance took dad to Barnes hospital in St. Louis, where they would have a team of doctors on his case. This was a joke. That trip was a waste of time and money, the one positive thing about that trip was the precious time I got to spend with dad while everyone else was working. Those five days were priceless, and I am very grateful for them.
After the experts at Barnes decided to not operate to remove the infected kidney, they sent him home with the promise of finding an adequate treatment program. It was weeks before they started chemo, and the downhill slide of his mental and physical health had gained so much inertia he was beyond help.
One blessing was he made it to my wedding, and got up out of his wheelchair to walk me down the isle.
He was gaunt, his ill-fitting tux hung on him like sack, but he was there. My dreams came true that day, only to be shattered days after returning from my honeymoon when my dad was found face-down on the floor in the wee hours of the morning.
This was four months ago and my heart is still breaking. It is breaking for the moments I didn't spend with him, for the grandchildren he will never get to meet or see grow up. My heart breaks for London, who wants to go see grandpa and can't understand why she can't. A man whose love for his children and grandchild surpassed even his love for himself.
How can I put that sentiment into three words on a tombstone?
He was my father and I miss him like crazy every day.
I have been tasked with finding an adequate phrase for his tombstone and I, for once, am at a loss for words. How do I sum up the life of a unique man who died too soon? How do I justify his death, and make my siblings feel satisfied with the words inscribed in marble three feet above the ashes of the man we called "dad?"
Actually, due to my fascination with the musical Wicked, I called him "Popsickle."
My dad's father passed away when he was just five years old. His mother had to work full time to support her four young children. He apparently was sickly as a child, but he never talked about it. He was the class clown in high school- I knew this between the combination of my dad's constant witty yet occasionally inappropriate remarks and the many comments scrawled in his high school yearbook.
My mother taking his beloved children away was the crowning blow in a betrayal that would affect him the rest of his life. Five years later he had a nearly fatal brain aneurysm that took his ability to hold down a regular job, and remember short term details or the names of every guy I dated. This happened shortly after the birth of my half sister Amber, and a brief marriage to my stepmonster.
Sadly, the meals on wheels operation pulled out of the area and dad no longer had his daily routine and adult interaction. I think this sudden dose inactivity was not good for him, and he spent most days on the couch watching the news or doing crosswords.The ray of sunshine that entered his life came in the form of his first grandchild- a smiling, happy and supersmart granddaughter, London. He began occupying his time cooking for her, playing with her and taking her to the play area at every fast food place in the area. His all-encompassing love for his children extended threefold for his grand baby. I saw him cry for only the second time in my life when she was born (the first was when he saw me as Glinda in The Wizard of Oz); he was so overcome with emotion he had to leave the hospital room. He also shared a special bond with my grouchy pug, Einstein, who would sit on no one's lap but my dad's.
When I started dating Jason, it was not long before my dad was working on him to propose sooner rather than later. He and my step-dad ambushed him over donuts and even tried to convince him to stop by the hardware store on the way home and make a ring out of a nail. He was probably already sick then, and I am devastated we didn't catch it.
In spite of the pressure by my dad and step-dad that fateful brunch, Jason proposed a few months later. One month before our wedding, my father fell and hurt is arm. Thinking he simply pulled a muscle, and helped a lady install a dish disposal the next day. When his arm was still bothering him a few weeks later, my brother forced him to go to the local clinic to get it checked out. They gave him painkillers and sent him on his way.
I happened to be down for the weekend and, preoccupied with wedding planning, spent little time with my dad. We had a funny back-and-forth exchange in the car after lunch, but that was it. He was tired, and I was picking on him, trying to witty and utterly failing.
I drove home the next day, only to turn around and drive right back after receiving "the call" from my older brother. Dad had cancer. He had broken his arm because his bones had been weekend by the spreading disease that was rapidly taking over his body. The small town hospital was not prepared to handle a case as advanced as his and my determined brother was not willing to give up hope. An ambulance took dad to Barnes hospital in St. Louis, where they would have a team of doctors on his case. This was a joke. That trip was a waste of time and money, the one positive thing about that trip was the precious time I got to spend with dad while everyone else was working. Those five days were priceless, and I am very grateful for them.
After the experts at Barnes decided to not operate to remove the infected kidney, they sent him home with the promise of finding an adequate treatment program. It was weeks before they started chemo, and the downhill slide of his mental and physical health had gained so much inertia he was beyond help.
One blessing was he made it to my wedding, and got up out of his wheelchair to walk me down the isle.
This was four months ago and my heart is still breaking. It is breaking for the moments I didn't spend with him, for the grandchildren he will never get to meet or see grow up. My heart breaks for London, who wants to go see grandpa and can't understand why she can't. A man whose love for his children and grandchild surpassed even his love for himself.
How can I put that sentiment into three words on a tombstone?
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