Breaking Cycles
- kristopherbmartin
- Jul 16
- 7 min read
Updated: Jul 16
A Long Goodbye
I got the opportunity to write sports nearly 20 years ago. It was just high school and small college stuff, but I’ve enjoyed playing and watching sports for my entire life and the little bit of extra money it put in my pocket served as my beer and “walking around” money. It was never about the money though – it was about communicating how much I enjoyed what I was doing. As the years went by and I moved around the times I got to go fishing with my Dad became less and less and I wanted to be able to share those times even when he wasn’t there with me.
My father passed away June 22, 2025 and coincidentally, I received the call informing me while I was fishing a club tournament. After suffering with Alzheimer’s disease for nearly a decade, the day had finally come and even though I thought I was prepared, after hanging the phone up I took a moment to compose my thoughts and feelings. I put the rod down, sat on the deck of my boat and tried to rationalize everything. There were a few tears. I was incredibly relieved that Dennis Brownfield, my co-angler for the day was as understanding as he was and that he recognized the gravity of the moment.
“Who died?”
“My Dad. Alzheimer’s. I knew it was coming for a long time.”
“Do you have to leave? Should we head to the ramp?”
“No. We’ve only got an hour or so left and there’s nothing I can do right now. There’s no rush. It’ll be a couple of weeks.”
I apologized to Dennis for the sudden intrusion of bad news.
“I’m sorry man. It just sucks. He was your dad. Take all the time you need,” he replied.
“Let’s finish this day on a good note.” I said. “He wouldn’t have wanted me to get all bent out of shape.”
The results of that tournament had us finishing in sixth-place, and on the drive home I made the usual phone calls (hands free of course). I turned the music up in the truck and drank a couple bottles of water. The passing of my father definitely hit hard. I was in many ways relieved, and still sad. He had been diagnosed over a decade earlier – so there was plenty of time to be ready for this eventuality, but it still felt like a brick.
Knowing that it was going to be soon I had sat down a couple of weeks earlier and wrote his obituary. And then I rewrote it - again and again and again. I never liked the finished product. I got to what I thought was a version that hit the important facts and then decided that maybe a eulogy would be more appropriate to write. I ended up never liking that either. My father was an easy guy to meet, but a difficult guy to get to know. He never had a lot of friends. He was excellent at being friendly, but not very good at maintaining friendships. I sometimes wondered if he would have chosen to go fishing with me if I hadn’t been his son. Like, if he enjoyed my company enough to choose me instead of taking me out of obligation. In later years, before his diagnosis I know that there were times when I wasn’t so keen on asking him to go. The personality changes that the disease inflicted upon him were not positive. He was quick to anger, difficult to humor and hell-bent on proving that he didn’t need any help or medical attention. There’s a lot of ambivalence there, and now I prefer to remember the earlier days, when I was still just a kid and neither of us wanted to spend time on the weekend mowing the lawn.
My father did not have an easy childhood. I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention that. The details of his childhood are not inconsequential either. He and his siblings spent six years in an orphanage, abandoned by their father. I’ve often said that adults cannot be abandoned, but children most certainly can. His mother was placed in an institution at the time as well. There’s a lot of venom that can be spewed at his father because of this. It’s something that I’m grateful I’ve never had to experience and I sometimes still wince at the thought of what he had to endure. I’ll spare the details, because the truth is, I don’t know a whole lot more. I only know that his childhood must have been terrifying at times, filled with uncertainty, fear and hope.
He deserved a better retirement. I don’t know that he got as much as a year before the disease started to work its way in. It started with small moments of forgetfulness and morphed in to leaving notes all over the place. He would buy huge quantities of socks, underwear and Red Solo cups. It wasn’t all bad. He bought a lot of beer too. Unfortunately, I never got to have one with him because he had moved back to Massachusetts to be closer to his family. I probably wouldn’t have wanted one anyway. The police got involved more than once. For a while there, things were a real mess. He would spend the rest of his years in facilities designed for people with dementia. Necessary, but it still seemed unfair.
The Veteran’s Memorial Cemetery in Agawam, Massachusetts is hallowed ground. There is a small administrative building with a small chapel adjacent and when you drive in for the first time there’s a slight tinge of awe. The headstones are set amongst some of the greenest and most well-manicured lawns I have ever seen. I’ve been to Arlington National Cemetery and while this one does not reach across the nation, it does serve to remind a person of the reverence and importance that service to this country commands.
Seeing my uncles, aunts and my cousins for the first time in many years brought back a lot of fond memories. We’re much older now and plenty of water has gone under the bridge. Our reason for being there was not a happy one, but I couldn’t help but feel how much I enjoyed seeing everyone again. Uncle Don and his long silver hair – Donnie. Uncle Joe with his stately gaze – a moral compass, unwavering in his softness and understanding. Lucy, the matriarch – stoic, with the commanding presence of politeness and propriety. Mikki, the comedienne – who, before being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s herself was always quick with a laugh and a reason to smile. My father’s older brother Fred (Bud), and sister Beth have already passed. The cousins and family friends, all shouldering the heat and humidity.
“Kris,” said Donnie holding out his hand.
“Screw that, give me a hug,” I replied. “It’s not like we’re meeting for the first time. If you make me cry I’ll have Al hold you down and shave off that mane of yours.”
It was good.
I held it together pretty well while we were in the chapel. The music was ok, but when they played ‘Taps’ I think we all shed a few. I took the time reflecting on my Dad. It’s because of him and my Mom that I describe my childhood as bucolic. I had good parents. They kept me safe, provided solid mentoring and exposed me to all sorts of wonderful experiences.
My father will never be remembered as a great man in the annals of history. He was however, a good one – a really good one. He did not cure cancer or solve world hunger. His impact on the world was much more than just leaving something behind. He broke what could have been a legacy of trauma. He chose not to be the person his father was. With the tools he was given he made choices that allowed my sister and I to be good people, free of what his generation had suffered. He never spoke ill of the time he spent in an orphanage. Not once. In fact, if he ever did talk about it, he made it seem like it was one of the best times of his life. His legacy, and that of his siblings is that they didn’t just endure, but that they survived to remain good people and positive influences on those around them.
As the service came to a close everyone was directed to exit the chapel to the front and right doors, leaving me as one of the last. I was at a loss for what to say or do as I made my way forward. A small urn, with the ashes of my father sat before me.
“Hey Dad.”
“Oh, hey.”
“I told the joke about how you said you never smoked.”
“I was cremated. I guess you caught me in a lie. That must’ve gone over…”
“Like a fart in church. Some people don’t understand gallows humor. Are you gonna’ be ok?”
“To be honest, I’m a bit relieved. It’s like retiring and not having to get up to go to work anymore. I kinda’ like that. What are you crying for?”
“You finally gave me something to cry for. I get it now. I’m sorry things were so tough for you.”
“It’s ok. I’m sorry I wasn’t a great baseball coach.”
“You always had time for a catch though.”
“Are you going to be ok?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’d think perhaps we should go fishing again sometime soon. I slid that little card thing in my wallet – you know the one they give you at funerals.”
“Sounds good.”
“I know you’re not much for ‘I love you’ and stuff, so, I’m going to miss you and I hope that wherever you end up that you remember that you mattered, especially to Stephanie and me. We always appreciated your effort.”
And it was then that the real words finally came to me. I spent all this time wondering how to say goodbye and then like a lightning bolt it hit me as a touched the urn.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
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