The First Thing I Said to My Father on His Deathbed
And the writing project that gave us our final connection.
Welcome to Mia’s Queue, a free newsletter for “humans in the loop” who care about conscious culture in a tech-driven world. I love exploring how taste and curation facilitate self-discovery and create deeper connections with others. When I’m not exploring what that means in my own life, I chat with an undercover tastemaker infusing creativity and wonder into the world. This edition is a more personal post about my father, his tastes, and their impact on me. Thank you for being here.
The first thing I whispered to my dad on his deathbed last Thursday was “Thank you for the words.” Other stuff tumbled out too but this was the first sentence that could escape my tears.
He wasn’t a man of many words but he inspired my love of them, opening up my world.
When he wasn’t working (his primary activity), my dad was running, paying bills, watching sports, or reading. He loved bestseller-type books and major New York City newspapers — The New York Times for news and The New York Post for sports, entertaining headlines, and Page Six.
As a teenager, it was this exposure to physical newspapers that got me into writing, media, and culture. I cut articles and scores out for my hockey scrapbooks. Reviewers like Jon Pareles and Michiko Kakutani were my celebrity crushes. I subscribed to so many music and culture magazines, including Smash Hits, CMJ, Interview, Spin, NME,
, Entertainment Weekly, and Vanity Fair. It’s why I joined my high school newspaper, which I continued in college, which helped me get my first job at MTV Networks.My dad pored over the newspapers every day of his life, even when Alzheimer’s meant he no longer grasped what he was reading. The papers were an anchor, a hook into a reality beyond his scrambled mind, to the language that was gradually abandoning him. His last trips behind the wheel were to the store to buy the newspaper. Right before he moved into his memory care facility, my dad would copy whole articles from The New York Times, as if to assure himself that he could still write something that would make sense.
When my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s around 2015, I suggested a writing project for us. I said, “I’ll provide a list of prompts, and let’s trade short essays on that topic!” My father was always an enigma to me (see: a man of few words), so I figured this was a good chance to get to know him while the hourglass still had some sand in it. Plus he was newly retired, excruciating for a lifelong workaholic. I wanted to fill his time with something productive for both of us.
I never thought he’d say yes but he was surprisingly enthusiastic. Great! I selected the writing prompts selfishly to give me insight into things I wanted to know or act on:
why did we each choose our respective professions? (in other words, what makes a man become a gynecologist?!)
which decade was your favorite and why? (to give me more reference points for his taste)
what is your favorite place in the world? (so I could go to his)
what were your fondest memories of your parents? (so I could extract any last memories about my grandparents and subtly tell him what he meant to me)
what is your favorite song? (so I could listen to his, duh!)
(Because I love music so much, I’ll go on a quick detour to show you his favorite song and what he said about it:)
Anyway, my dad took to this project like it was a new job, enlisting the help of my sister and stepmother to help him type out his essays and email them to me. He would call me — not something he did a lot before — to discuss the week’s assignment. Now I was the one often too busy to take his calls, although I did my best to keep up with the ambitious “curriculum” I had created and to provide positive feedback.
One voicemail from this time makes me cry:
Never have I heard my father sound so earnest and excited, and I don’t think I ever heard him use the word “magical” to describe anything we did together. My sister says this is his real self, with no fear of expression. I think she’s right.
After about six months, the project became too overwhelming and stressful for my dad. One prompt about what he would say in his own obituary was truly regrettable, and his essay answer to another question got him in trouble with a family member. The disease was progressing in ways I couldn’t see, and it was hard for me to keep up with where he was cognitively or emotionally. Still, I’m really glad we did this little project. I’m so thankful for these relics of our communication and whatever muse led me to suggest it in the first place.
I know how tough it is to have a parent with Alzheimer’s. I share this story to help others who may be behind me on this journey. Come to think of it, my conclusion from the whole experience is appropriate for any human being: Your words don’t have to be professional or perfect or even fully ready to come out. Just find them and use them, before it’s too late.
I’d like to honor the “Q” in Mia’s Queue by sharing a few of Dr. Q’s favorite things, the things that’ll always make me think of him.
📚 Stephen King
My dad always had a book going, usually propped up on his chest at the beach on a summer weekend, his skin turning crispy as he snoozed. (He hated sunscreen.) If Stephen King had something new out, that was what my dad was reading. Misery, Pet Sematary and Christine were ones I vividly remember him gushing about.
📺 The Sopranos
As an Italian-American in New York City, my dad was fascinated with the mafia. He liked to eat at the same Little Italy restaurants frequented by mobsters, worshipped The Sopranos, and had only one specialty in the kitchen: rigatoni with cubed eggplant from the Sopranos cookbook. (One time, he took my sister and me on vacation and we might have had it three nights in a row.) He loved “The Godfather,” “Goodfellas” and anything by Martin Scorsese too.
🍝 (Italian) Food
My dad loved to eat, mostly pizza and pasta. He would joke that his mother put spinach in his bottle, explaining why he did not care for the greens that were often a requirement of my childhood meals. According to my dad, pasta HAS to be al denté and don’t you ever dare mix shapes! In the summer, he liked to grill, and his exaggerated shenanigans to get live lobsters in the pot is the stuff of legend.
😹 The Muppet Show
Speaking of silly cooks, the Swedish Chef always got my dad roaring. I remember the Muppet Show coming on after Sunday supper with my grandmother Nanny in Queens, NY. Statler & Waldorf, Animal, Beaker...these characters really made him chuckle.
🤣 Classic SNL
My dad loved classic Saturday Night Live too, in particular Roseanne Rosannadanna, the Czech Brothers (“two wild and crazy guys”), Steve Martin’s King Tut, and anything with Jim Belushi.
🏈 Sports
Jets, Rangers, Knicks, Mets, college, pro…my dad loved sports. Some of my fondest memories include going with him to Madison Square Garden to watch the Rangers play and laugh at “the dancing jerkoff” (IYKYK). He would be so proud to know that his son Jack now works for the NFL. I still find solace in having games on the TV as background noise. It tells me I’m home and so are people I love.
Once again, thanks so much for being here, and welcome to any new subscribers coming from ’s Ancestors to Elements and ’ newsletters. (And thanks to these two for recommending me. Dan is also my brother-in-law FYI). I’d love to hear from you!
Thank you for sharing these words and moments, Mia. Thank you.
A wonderful read and tribute to your Dad. Thanks for sharing, Mia.