My Father’s Death

LOSING A PARENT is like having a taproot severed. A cord that holds us to the ground is cut. Difficult it is for those with difficult parents, and even more so for those with good parents.
My father, William Paul Quinn, died yesterday at 11:54 a.m. in bed at home in West Chester, Pennsylvania. He was 91 years old. All seven of his children were at his bedside when he took his last breaths. Having a parent for so long doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready to say goodbye. (If you know any couple who would be willing to adopt seven pre-elderly orphans, we’re open to offers.) We still need parental attention. We need parents to take care of and cherish too. The brutal fact is, we never truly outgrow the need for a father and a mother. Now both our parents are gone.
My father survived his wife of 64 years by a little over six months and spent much of that time in a recliner in his bedroom, unable to walk much, unable to control his basic functions, almost defeated, grieving, anxious to die but cheerful and interested in others nevertheless. He was mentally sharp up until the very end. The last few days he fell into a deep sleep, like a boxer who’d been flung back against the ropes for the last time. His hands were so swollen they actually looked like boxing gloves. He had put up a good fight. The bruises on his hands said so. But it was done.
Before the humiliations — and the good times — of old age, my father was a bright and accomplished attorney who grew up in Scranton, Pennsylvania; went to law school at the University of Pennsylvania and worked for the Reading Railroad. Then later as a partner in a firm he specialized in interstate commerce and railroads. (more…)


