Words from the heart for an amazing man

As some of you probably know by now, my father lost his battle with lung cancer Dec. 6, 2009. He was 53.

It's strange to use the word "lost" when referring to my father's death. I'm not sure he ever lost a fight in his life and he certainly fought cancer up until his very last breath. Sixty percent of patients diagnosed with his type of lung cancer die within the first year, yet I have a hard time admitting that the man I saw as invincible lost this fight nine months after being diagnosed.

I guess I prefer saying he finally found the path to a better, pain free place -- even if he was forced to find that path. He never let go.

Since many of you have been reading about my father and asking me about him over the last several months, I decided to use this column as one last update on this chapter of my life that can only be described as being like a roller coaster ride of mixed emotions.

I thought I would share a few things I have learned and observed over the last week or so. Maybe some of you can relate.

First, I always felt grateful for the good amount of quality time I was able to spend with my dad over the last nine months. I felt that if I wasn't there for his actual death, I would be OK with that, since every time I left New York I knew there was a possibility it would be the last time I would see my dad. But when my father's death was near, and I received a call from my brother to come home, there was nothing that could stop me from attempting to be by his side. Even though there was a part of me that felt like he could pull through this low, I followed my gut instinct and flew to New York -- again. Because I did this, I was able to spend the last two days of my father's life with him and for that, I am forever grateful. I learned there really is a meaning behind the saying, "follow your gut."

Once my father passed, I felt a sense of relief initially, because I couldn't stand seeing him suffer. Then, I felt a sense of guilt for having felt the sense of relief.

I always thought that leading up to the funeral I would be a train wreck, but that was not the case at all. I am thankful that over the last several months I had reserved some time to think about what kind of service I would want to have for my father. I stayed extremely busy carrying out most of these wishes and had no time for tears for the three days leading up to his funeral. Sounds strange, I know, but I had my mind set on arranging for the best possible tribute for which my father could ever ask. To me, planning his funeral seemed like the last chance I had to make him proud.

There were three things that really mattered the most to me in arranging his funeral. I wanted to choose the songs to be played at the service; I wanted to put together a video montage, representative of his life, to play at the reception that followed the Christian mass; and I wanted to write his eulogy -- and attempt to deliver it. Admittedly, I became a control freak and I wanted to take on all the major tasks myself.

Once I had written the eulogy I thought it was a mistake for me to have agreed to deliver it in front of the hundreds of folks in attendance. I was so nervous and was sure I would break down while trying to read it. After all, at this point I managed to hold it all together. I felt like it was only a matter of time before the flood gates opened.

Something strange happened, though. When I got up to the pulpit to deliver the eulogy, which I tried to keep upbeat and humorous, I felt a sense of peace. I did not cry and I didn't feel nervous. I think my father became my guardian angel that day and bestowed his own toughness over me as I delivered a final tribute to an amazing man.

Then I became exhausted. There were hundreds of people who came to the celebratory reception we held following the funeral. I felt like hiding out and didn't want to talk to anyone.

A profound sense of loss came the following day, when I realized he would not be calling for me or nagging me to heat up his coffee for the 10th time that morning, to make him toast, to go to the diner with him, to attempt to work on the farm for him, or any other silly task. He was a demanding man at times, but for the first time, I missed his demands.

I looked at his chair, the one in which two weeks ago he sat on Thanksgiving night visiting with me, and it was empty. His truck sat outside. His clothes were all in place. His notebook remained on the kitchen table with notes written in his messy handwriting. Everything was in place -- except there was no Dad.

The next day, I spent time reading some cards and comments posted to his online obituary and felt so proud of him for the man he was. He truly was charismatic, charming, popular and very funny. My favorite comment was one from his longtime friend who wrote, "One cannot think of Dan Killian without smiling -- and now without tearing up."

His death was indeed a huge loss to us upstate New Yorkers.

After moping around for a couple of days following the funeral, I flew back to Tennessee. I told my coworkers that things seem to be a little easier for me here because I'm not reminded of my father every time I turn around.

I know, as Mary Reeves reminded me, it's not over. It will get harder before it gets easier and the pain will never go away ... we just learn when and where to feel that pain as the years go by, she said.

I think when those times come I'll be so happy I put together that video montage of his life -- set to all the songs that remind me of him. On certain days in the future, like maybe on his birthday each year, I hope to be able to look at this video and celebrate his life.

Not now, but one day ...

-- Sadie Fowler is the Lifestyles Editor for the Times-Gazette. She may be reached at sfowler@t-g.com.