Reznet

Death is no stranger to Natives. We always have a cousin, aunt or uncle who passes seemingly every year. And then, on a day you don't quite expect it, death comes into your own home, unannounced and uninvited.

My father, Ralph Gabriel Big Owl Walking Bull, Sr., passed away on April 11. As I wrote in my personal blog, he was the king of my universe and my reason for living. His death came so suddenly, it's only been recently that I've had time to sit and consider the impact on my own life. There's no word for kids like us, we are not orphans nor widows nor widowers, we are simply, fatherless children.

My father's death was sudden, but poetic. He'd been in poor health recently and in February, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Having been a smoker for decades, he'd quit almost 15 years ago; it's as if his body had an afterthought of cancer. He came to Reno for eye surgery from our family home in South Dakota. He'd split his time between here and there and was ready to spend time here when he flew down on the evening of April 10.

My mother, my nephew and I went to meet him at the airport and as I saw my hero wheeled down the concourse, I ran to meet him. He gave me the biggest hug and kiss he'd ever given me since I was about six years-old. As we drove to deliver him to my brother's house, he began telling us all how he'd missed us and was happy to be here.

According to my mother, when he finally got to my brother's house, he met the newest member of the family, my brother's youngest son, born last November. They simply stared at each other, observing the natures of each other's face.

The next morning, my father had a heart attack and was pronounced dead at 10:34 a.m. My mother came to my workplace to inform and collect me. The next few hours passed with tears, prayers and every feeling of loss. Because my brother lives in a remote part of Reno, it took the coroner an hour or so to arrive. We sat with my father's body the entire time. It's one thing to see your father, a Native Superman who'd deteriorated over the years into a frail elder; but it's an entirely different thing to hold his head in your hands and will every ounce of your life into his body, hoping he would come back to life.

Over the days that followed, I had time to mourn my father, realizing that even if he could be brought back to life, what kind of life would that be? He'd gone as peacefully as possible. From my brother's account, our father simply got very dizzy, passed out and could not be awakened. His entire trip, a poem from the most bittersweet volume; he came to meet his last grandson, see off his family and finally went home.

My mother and I cut our hair to mark our mourning and when we were finally able to secure travel for my father's body and the entire family, we made our way back home to Rosebud, S.D. When we arrived in our home there, we found all his papers, arranged so we'd find them easily and realized he'd planned to come say goodbye, preparing us for the drudgery of paperwork and transfers of ownership.

At the wakes, many people spoke of my father. There were funny stories and sad stories, but the thing that stood out to me was from Mother Judy Spruhan, the local Episcopalian priest. Having come from the South, she said the best way she could describe my father was as a gentleman.

For all the stories and experiences I shared with my father, I'd never considered his actions as anything a gentlemen would do, but simply, what any decent man would do. When I mentally examined all the stories he'd imparted to me over the years, the ways to treat people, the ways to pray and the ways to show respect to every living thing, I'd realized how valuable his words and actions were.

As the drum group sang and the congregation sang Lakota language Christian hymns over those nights in his old stomping grounds of Corn Creek community, I struggled to understand all of his knowledge. They are of some comfort in these days when I try to think not of my loneliness, but of the things he did for me to make me a better person.

The pain doesn't ever go away. There is no point in the future when I can look back and feel just joy, there's always going to be a sense of loss and injustice. I'll always feel willing to trade just one more day of my life for his; I'll always wish for just one more hour or minute with him. But the pain will ease. It will get simpler to reduce the pain in other ways, it will become manageable. I will realize his death was a release for him from his own pain and suffering.

Over the years, I'll have greater joy and greater pain to replace this. I will be able to wake each morning without this sense of loss the first thing in my head. My father has gone on, the world has gone on and so must I.