My father, Don Dahlman, passed away in Cleveland, Ohio on July 22, 2016. It was two days before his 98th birthday. We buried him back home in Cincinnati a week later. Here’s what I said.
Last Friday, after Dad passed away in his room at the Menorah Park, we were waiting for him to go on his final trip back to Cincinnati. I was surprised to find the staff of the nursing home, lining up outside his door, tentatively knocking, then asking to come in. There were lots of tears and tender caresses for “Mr. Don”. Even though by the end Dad had lost most of his memory, and even finally the capacity to finish his sentences – you would never know that Dad didn’t know who you were. He made you feel special: everyone felt his humor, felt his gratitude, felt his love. The staff wanted to say a final goodbye.
Dad was always showing us how to live.
He worked harder then anyone I knew. He went to work at 8, he came home at 8; as a kid I always thought that was a normal workday. Family was part of the work: whether we were getting ready for a legendary party, interviewing prospective salesmen, or drinking too much aquavit in Sweden (I was older then) trying to sell Donahue to government television – he made us part of his efforts, and showed us to put our hearts into whatever we did.
Dad was up for a challenge – and he made sure we were too. When we were kids we went to Hilton Beach in Canada. There it was the morning “bath”: getting into Lake Huron with a bar of Ivory soap (of course a P and G product) to start the day. I don’t think any of us thought there was an “option” of skipping the morning freeze, it’s just how he wanted the day to start.
Dad always pushed us to make the most out of what were doing. We played tennis together since I was five. It took until I was 18 to get a set from him, and even much later when I wanted to back down and let him win, he would have none of it. We were playing doubles in the “walking wounded” tennis group in Florida, and the opponent who kept coming to the net had just had open heart surgery. I kept soft balling the ball back to him – Dad pulled me aside in between points. “What are you doing” he asked, and I said I didn’t want to hit him hard – to which Dad said forehand drive him off the net – Dahlman’s rules – if you go to the net you better be ready to hit or duck. Winning was winning, even in the walking wounded.
Dad made sacrifices for us that we didn’t even realize. His career would have been even greater if he’d moved to the center of the broadcast universe, New York. But he wasn’t willing to raise a family in a place where he’d have to spend hours on a train missing out on them, and he wasn’t going to raise us in the city. We stayed here in Cincinnati, a city Dad loved and a city that, even as we all moved away, we still think of as home.
Dad was crazy proud of his kids: the neurosurgeon, the artist, the teacher. But he was even prouder of Mom. They showed us kids how to love, not just by loving us, but by showing us how two can be madly in love for 67 years. As Mom got sicker, Dad took on wheelchairs, bathing and oxygen machines. He did it for the woman he loved.
So Dad always taught us how to live by showing us, even in the end. With everything else stripped away, Dad still taught us how to exit the stage: with dignity, and with love.
