Finding Dad

by Kara Sundlun

  “Dad, I’m going to be right here, and we’re going to get this done, okay?”

  “Okay.” He seemed tired of the fight and wanted to just get back to sleep.

  I had never seen my father so listless. I held his arm and hand, and talked him through the delicate procedure—and after thirty minutes, the doctors had what they needed: a pathway into Dad’s body to deliver fuel during his next operation. Hurrah!

  The surgery went well, and I felt sure we would now be able to get Dad to focus on getting better. He just needed to tap into that inner strength that gushed like a geyser whenever it erupted. I was positive Dad could heal himself—he just needed a push. They sent him to a rehab center, and I visited almost daily, trying to get him to listen to the physical therapists and do his exercises.

  “Come on, Dad, you always tell me how strong you are, so prove it.” My intent was to engage his competitive spark, but all he wanted to do was sleep. His temperature rose, and they sent him back to the hospital, worried that he had an infection.

  I was filled with dread…oh no, no, no, not one more thing. I mustered up all the strength I had and prayed for him to heal. I begged the universal force that had always guided me to now help me find the answers we needed for his health—but that proved elusive. Dad’s body was shutting down, and my heart broke when I realized it was time to call my brothers and tell them to fly in. Until now, we all thought Dad would beat this—because he always did—but the doctors told us if he went home, he would need constant care, and that he might not ever be a hundred percent again. He’d simply lost too much strength. But I took what they’d said with a grain of salt, because they just didn’t know my dad and his ability to fight.

  In the meantime, Soozie slept at the hospital on a pull-out bed each night, and my father’s ex-wife, Marjorie, stopped by daily with treats and get-well gifts. We joked to the nurses that we were a happily dysfunctional family. Both of my father’s wives, and me— the surprise daughter—traded shifts to make sure Dad wasn’t alone.

  Dad’s spirits lifted when my brothers arrived. They sat around his hospital bed and told him stories about the latest happenings in their lives. We enjoyed family meals of to-go sandwiches and lemonade at the foot of Dad’s bed, and settled on a care plan for after he left the hospital. All of us chose to believe he would be the exception to the rule and be back to his old self soon. The doctors were pleased with Dad’s reports, so I felt safe to go back to work, and my brothers flew back to home.

  I’d only been back to work one day when Soozie called me in tears. It was Tuesday morning, July 19th. “Kara, your father has taken a turn for the worse, and the doctors feel you should come back.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said through sobs.

  As I drove, I thought about the past few weeks. He’d had two surgeries to unblock his kidneys, and had spent most of that time in excruciating pain. I knew he was exhausted. I thought about Dad’s and my journey and how we’d made the most of every moment after we decided we really did love each other. How could I ever live without that?

  I made the familiar trek to Dad’s room, but this time it felt different. His hug lingered, and I started to cry. Does he know he’s leaving me? I had worked so hard to find my dad, and I couldn’t face going back to a world without him. I buried my face in his hospital gown and let it all go—I melted into him, my heart silently begging him to keep on going, yet knowing he couldn’t. I wanted him to live to see my children grow up, to watch my career grow, to campaign for Dennis when he runs for office someday. The ticking Dad-clock I had felt before was getting louder and about to ding, and there was so much more I wanted to say and do. I wasn’t finished yet.

  I wanted my nightly phone calls, family vacations, and history lessons. I wanted arguments over what’s appropriate dress at a Newport dinner, formal invitations to holidays, and most of all, his love—the love that always made me strong and inspired me to do more. I had a beautiful family of my own to take care of, but I didn’t know how I would go on without my rock—the boulder that I’d had chiseled open to create a safe place to heal. Together, we had strengthened each other, changed each other’s identity, and created a life that was better than either of us could have imagined.

  If he died, I feared I might collapse, unable to ever move again. But, somehow, I understood his hug was letting me know that we would do this part together, too. I would help him die on his terms. I would be the one he needed in the foxhole, making sure his exit strategy was carried out.

  One of those strategies involved letting his old staff know the end was near. My father considered his time as governor as the best days of his life, and many of his staff were still among his closest friends twenty years later. Predictably, the old crew showed up in droves—so many that I lost count. Among the crowd was Senator Sheldon Whitehouse, who was my father’s director of policy when he was governor,; his former press secretary, Barbara Cottam; Chief of staff, David Preston; and, of course, his faithful friend and assistant, Patti Goldstein. I gave her a long hug, remembering all the secret talks we’d had before the rest of the world knew about me.

  David Morsilli looked at me with tears in his eyes. After driving me to me meet my father for the first time, and then becoming my boyfriend, he had witnessed our transformational journey firsthand. “I’m so sorry, Kara, I know how much you two love each other.”

  Dad perked up with each visit, talking more than he had in days, clearly loving talking about the good old times. All the reminiscing made it seem like he was improving, but when the crowds were gone, so was his voice. He had given his last meet and greet—his last rally before moving on. Fifi had come to the hospital, and we both slept on chairs outside his room, too afraid to leave.

  The next day, Dad stopped moving or talking. When the doctors asked us what we wanted, Soozie and I agreed we wanted him to come home. He had been begging to go home for three weeks, and we knew he’d want to die in his house. The doctor wasn’t as agreeable and warned Dad could die on the way, but we had to at least try. My dad had managed to escape from the Nazis, and we knew he wanted to escape from this hospital. Tracy arrived breathless from the airport, and we all agreed that we were the people he needed in his final foxhole. The old staff banded together and assumed their old roles of advance team, security, and press secretary to handle the rumors swirling that Governor Sundlun was dying.

  Soozie and I operated like a stealth military unit, rushing Dad’s limp sleeping body into the ambulance on a scorching hot July day. A team of state troopers escorted us to Dad’s home in Jamestown, making sure we wouldn’t get stuck in beach traffic.

  I called Dennis, who was on the way to the hospital with his mother, Marilyn, and told them to turn around, “I need you to meet us at my dad’s house; we’re taking him home.”

  “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

  “Clear out his office, the hospice nurses need a place to set up a bed.”

  My adrenaline was pumping as Soozie and I held on to either side of dad’s stretcher. I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “You’re going to be okay, Dad. You’re going home, just like you wanted.”

  Dad and Soozie’s seaside house sat on top of a hill, overlooking Naragansett Bay, and the only way in was up a flight of stairs. It took the strength of several men to carefully move the stretcher up the steep stairs and into his study, where they placed his unconscious body onto the bed the hospice nurses had provided. I willed myself not to collapse in a pool of tears. It seemed like just yesterday when we’d shared our first hello.

  I didn’t know what to do next. I’d never seen anyone die before, and I could only think of reading Tuesday’s with Morrie, by Mitch Albom, where he talked about how the dying needed you talk to them, love them, and witness the end of their life. I wanted to do all that for Dad. We called up one of his dearest friends, Nuala Pell, the widow of the late Senator Claiborne Pell to let her know the end was near, and she rushed over to say a final goodbye. Mrs. Pell was the embod
iment of graciousness, and it was good to see her kind face as we let her have a moment alone with Dad. After she left, it seemed Dad was slipping further away.

  “What do we do now?” I asked the hospice nurse.

  “Just wait. The end will probably be here soon, his breathing is getting slow. Is he waiting for anyone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes they hang on waiting to say goodbye.”

  ”My two other brothers, Peter and Stuart, weren’t able to catch flights in time, but Tracy and his daughter, Fifi, are here.”

  “Maybe you should call the others—the hearing is the last thing to go.”

  I went back into the study where we were all holding vigil around Dad.

  Tracy and I took the nurses advice and used his cell phone to call Stuart, pressing the phone against Dad’s ear so he could say his final goodbyes. Though Dad’s eyes were closed, I felt sure he heard his son’s loving words. We did the same with Peter. And finally Soozie’s son, Max, called in to give his tearful farewell. When it was over, all we could do was wait.

  “Dad, we’re all here, and we love you,” I said, stroking his beautiful hair.

  Soozie whispered, “Just relax, sweetheart, your mom and dad are waiting for you. I know your dad and you didn’t always get along but he’s much nicer over there, plus your crew from the war is waiting.” Her daughter, Heather, stroked her back trying to comfort Soozie.

  As the intervals between his breaths grew longer, we waited, wondering each time if it was his last one. “Dad, you made us a family, and we promise to always take care of each other and Soozie. It’s okay for you to go.” My tears dripped on his cheek.

  On July 21, 2011, Dad took his final breath. At the same time, the outside door blew open and a picture flew off the wall. We instantly knew he had just left the Earth with his trademark gusto.

  We were all stunned silent. The door was one they never used, and there was no wind on this hot-humid afternoon.

  “I guess they came and got him,” Tracy said, gazing at the blown-open door.

  Soozie’s son-in-law, Ray, shook his head in dismay. “If I hadn’t seen this myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  Tears streamed down Soozie’s face while she caressed Dad’s cheek. “He must have found the light.”

  Sure, I believed in an afterlife, but until this moment I had never witnessed such a powerful example of it. I hugged my Dad’s still-warm body and silently thanked him for the signs.

  As if the door blowing open wasn’t enough, Dad was sending us signs with numbers—91, in particular. He was 91 years old, it was 91 degrees out, and when we looked for a blanket to cover him, we found one someone had sent him as a thank you gift with an American bald eagle and the number 91 in the corner, signifying the year he took office. I felt comforted—as if Dad was watching over us.

  “I can’t believe the 91’s. It just can’t be a coincidence,” Tracy said, looking baffled.

  But we all agreed, and knew it would always be a special number for all of us.

  My reporter brain helped me put my grieving on pause, as I realized I needed to help Dad get the sendoff he deserved.

  “We need to work up a family statement for the press,” I said to Dennis.

  “You write it,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “and I’ll notify the TV stations and the newspaper.”

  As I sat down to write, it came to me easily,

  “Former Governor Bruce Sundlun died peacefully tonight at his home in Jamestown. He was surrounded by his loving family. As a husband, father, and grandfather he was our North Star. We are deeply grateful for his love and lessons throughout our lives.”

  Dad was my North Star, and I feared the sky would never look as bright without him here. But I wanted to be strong for him. I wanted to make sure we made him proud. I’d like to think we did.

  A few moments after Dennis released the statement, the local evening news announced the breaking story that former Governor Bruce Sundlun had died. Since TV stations prepare for moments like these years in advance, the anchors were able to toss in an in depth story on Dad’s life. We all watched the newscast and joked that Dad died at the perfect time to be the lead on the evening news.

  As news spread, close friends and dignitaries started to call to express their condolences. The then-Congressman Patrick Kennedy considered my father to be one of his mentors and made sure to race to the house before my father’s body was taken away.

  Exhausted from such an emotionally draining day, I drove to my home in Newport, eager to hug my children and lean on Dennis, who had gone home to be with them, and gather strength for the funeral. Pulling into my driveway, I saw a bright red cardinal sitting on the walkway. When I woke up the next morning, the red bird was the first thing I saw again. I told Soozie when she called to firm up plans for the funeral, and she told me how she kept noticing red cardinals on her path as well. Soozie and I took the cardinal to be a clear sign from Dad, but didn’t quite understand the meaning. I now know after doing some research the cardinal symbolizes the highest most important thing in our lives, and Dad was certainly that for me. I still see the cardinal all the time, and know it’s Dad fluttering by to say “hey, baby.”

  Dad’s former staff banded together to handle the news reports and the logistics of the kind of funeral we knew Dad would have wanted. The flags flew at half-staff, and his body would lie in state at the Capitol, followed by a public funeral service for the hundreds who would come to mourn him, complete with a military fly over organized by his former legal counsel, Michael Bucci.

  Stuart and Peter were on the way, and we would all meet at the funeral home in the morning with Soozie to discuss more details with Rabbi Leslie Gutterman, at Temple Beth El in Providence. Rabbi Gutterman had been a close friend of my father’s and was fond of kidding my dad: “Bruce, don’t be ashamed you’re Jewish, it’s bad enough we’re ashamed you’re Jewish!”

  Though my father wasn’t very religious, he was committed to honoring his heritage, especially since he’d escaped from the Nazis. He had been president of the temple, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, Walter, who’d held the post before him. Rabbi Gutterman insisted on making sure proper Jewish traditions were observed at my father’s funeral. He didn’t want a media circus, and nixed the idea of playing Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way.”

  “It’s fine for the party afterward, but we can’t do that during the funeral,” he told me firmly.

  “But, Rabbi, we have to, it’s the only thing my father specifically asked for, and I think we have to honor his wishes.”

  With a little more coaxing, Rabbi Gutterman agreed to have the organ play the instrumental version of the song, and he would tell the mourners it was my father’s wish.

  He remained insistent that there be no TV cameras, and I didn’t push. Though later, Barbara Cottam, Dad’s former press secretary, called to tell us Rabbi Gutterman gave in to having one camera in the temple, since all three television stations planned to broadcast the funeral live. My brothers, Soozie, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought that Dad must still be pulling strings from the other side.

  My brothers and I all agreed to give a brief eulogy, so we could each give our unique reflections of our larger-than-life father. Soozie was understandably too upset to speak, but her children, Max and Heather, wanted to say a few words in her place.

  My brothers did a fabulous job of tugging at heart strings and even making people laugh. Tracy opened his eulogy with, “I am Dad’s oldest child—or at least we think so…” inviting a laugh out of the crowd.

  Stuart recalled a story of when he tried to give Dad a massage. “Stop that, I like the tension.”

  Peter spoke of Dad’s unbelievable accomplishments. “I don’t know anyone who has done the body of work Dad has.”

  Each gave beautiful speeches, without shedding a tear—I knew I couldn’t do that. I walked up to the podium, trembling at the thought of bearing my
soul on live TV in front of dignitaries, my closest friends, family, and co-workers.

  I joked about Dad calling me his new baby out on the campaign trail when we first met, and about following in his footsteps as a broadcaster. But my voice wavered as I neared the end of my notes, and teardrops dampened the ink as they rolled off my nose. “Dad, you were so big in life, that I know, even in death, you won’t stop leading us, which is good because I’m lost without you.”

  I let the pent up tears flow quietly as I took my seat next to Dennis and squeezed Helena’s hand to assure her mommy was okay. Then, I listened to Heather and Max talk together about what a force he was in their lives, too. “He truly changed my mother’s life…he was loving, passionate, and there was never a dull moment…”

  Max said, “You did your best because that’s what he expected of you, and he made you better because of it…”

  Next came an incredible speech by Senator Sheldon Whitehouse: “He was irrepressible, impatient, imperial, unstoppable, combative, frustrating, willful, constantly threw caution to the wind, impossible to keep up with, he drove us nuts, and we loved him. We loved him because he was bold and brave…”

  Sheldon captured my father’s essence, and the crowd applauded, knowing Dad would have loved the celebration of his life.

  As we walked out past the rows of National Guardsmen standing at attention and saluted my father’s flag draped casket, we were struck by a license plate in front of us with just the number 91 on it. We all agreed Dad was letting us know we had made him proud. Dad must have been beaming in heaven. He was the lead story on every newscast, and the next morning the nation’s biggest newspapers wrote lengthy obituaries, listing his numerous accomplishments. The New York Times headline read, “Rhode Island Governor with Flair, Dies at 91.”

  The article used a picture of the two of us laughing at my wedding, and went on to say, “Mr. Sundlun cut a larger than life figure that seemed inversely proportional to the size of his state.”