As we get older, we see more and more of our friends and family pass away. The worst are the sudden deaths because there is no chance to say goodbye. But when there is a chance to say goodbye, how do we do that? What words do we use? It turns out, my dad gave us the answer.
Poopsy was my dad. Technically, he was my stepdad, but he married my mom in 1963 when I was barely in first grade, and he raised me. Poopsy was a nickname he got shortly after he married Mom. (If you want to read about him, there's a link at the bottom of this story.)
In December 1998, Poopsy was given about 6 months to live. He'd been on dialysis for over a year, and things were getting worse. His heart was growing weaker, as were some of his other organs. While we knew he was on dialysis, none of us kids knew things had taken a turn for the worse or how bad it was.
It was Wednesday, February 18th, 1999, when he called me at work and asked if we could come up this weekend. I said we'd be up Sunday after church.
As we pulled into the driveway, there was Poopsy sitting on the front porch with his beloved Coca-Cola in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It must have been 30 degrees out.
We went in the back door, and I poured a glass of Mom's sweet southern tea, and we all headed outside. The kids wanted to hug Papaw. It was cold as hell out, and after being warm in the car, the kids really felt the cold, so the hugs didn't last long before they went running back inside for warmth.
After everyone had gone back inside and it was just the two of us, he set his glass of Coke down and began: "Here's what the doctor said, here's how much time he said I have, and I want to make things right between us before I go. I need you to tell me all the times I caused you pain, or I came up short as your dad. I want to fix that before I go."
As he spoke those words to me, my world came crashing down. I was losing my anchor, my light in the storm. I sat quietly for a few moments as my entire childhood flashed before my eyes. I reflected back on the conversation we had before I joined the Army. The warning he'd given me about marrying my wife ("anything that sweet is a mask for poison"). Everything. The few hurts I could recall (a missed baseball game that was VERY important to me) seemed petty in light of all the amazing things he had given me, so I said, "I can only think of all the wonderful things you've done for our entire family and for me. Half of us would be dead or in prison were it not for you. I have no complaints or grievances to air." He smiled and told me I “was being too kind and letting him off easy.” I told him that I knew he had stayed for us kids. We all knew it. He looked down at the ground, then back at me, and lit another cigarette.
Turns out, Poopsy had reached out to each of us kids, even those who hadn't spoken to him in years (Mom was the cause of estrangement in our family) and to each one of us he said the same words, “Here's what the doctor said, here's how much time he said I have and I want to make things right between us before I go. I need you to tell me all the times I caused you pain, or I came up short as your dad; I want to fix that before I go."
Sit with this for a moment and think of the love and courage it takes to have that conversation. To open yourself up and be so incredibly vulnerable just so you could heal someone else's heart because you don't want them to carry, for the rest of their lives, whatever pain you may have caused.
Since then, we have had this conversation countless times in my family (we call it the Poopsy Talk). We've had the talk between us siblings; my brothers had it with their wives and children; basically everyone who knows they're getting ready to pass has that talk with the people they love and who love them.
We have even reversed the talk and said, "Before you go, I want you to tell me all the times when I have caused you pain or come up short as your ____."
Maybe this is Poopsy's true legacy: to share a way to say goodbye to those we're leaving behind and to do it with love, compassion, and courage.
Here's a link to the full story about Poopsy.