diana cowgill

The last time I saw my dad was about two years ago. He was still Tom, he still knew me, and he told me a few things that I needed to hear. He gave us a wonderful goodbye. The perfect end to one of the most profound relationships of both of our lives.  

He said, one, that I was beautiful. Two, that he was proud of me. And three, that he’d lived a good long life.

Then we told each other I love you. Then we said goodbye. 

It was simple, just like all the best things in our relationship. 

My dad always wanted kids, but I think he needed a daughter. He needed an outlet for his tender side, someone to adore and be adored by. Enter, me. 

Some of my most precious memories are of just doing errands with TC. On countless Saturday mornings, he’d wake me up way too early and take me to the feed store, or to the hardware store, or to the dump.

We’d eat breakfast. Corned beef hash and eggs for him, everytime. And he’d take care of whatever it was he needed to take care of.

To clarify, I did not help. I was not his assistant. I couldn’t carry anything and he wasn’t teaching me business. I was just there for company.

And I loved it. I got to be his little buddy, to be along for the ride when my dad was at his loosest. Unshaven, in a rumpled tshirt, and in no rush, he would be mellow when it was just the two of us, driving around in a filthy truck that he refused on principle to ever wash. 

Another of my favorite things about my dad, and everyone here probably feels the exact same way, were his stories.

He was a masterful storyteller. Funny, lively, and with anecdotes for literally any occasion, his Irishness was at its strongest when my dad had the floor. He used voices in his stories, and is the reason that all of his kids do accents. Pete and Chris are so good that they’ve been able to pass as British before. I use my voice skills to impersonate my cats.

He spun me yarns from the moment I could hold my head up, many from his sprawling series, Tom Conway Does It Again.

Tom Conway Does It Again were fictional stories where Tom Conway would perform almost unbelievable acts of heroism. Tom Conway would be a cowboy, or a sailor, or a knight, and he would be called upon, usually by me, to save the day. I had terrible luck in the world of Tom Conway Does It Again. I’d fall into holes or be carried off by birds or get marooned on barren islands, and somehow, everytime Tom Conway would figure out a way to get me safely home.

These stories were like private radio shows, performed with sound effects and characters. They always ended right when it was time for me to drift off. He’d tuck me in, announce Tom Conway Does It Again, and kiss me goodnight. 

One of the few things Tom Conway couldn’t do was fix my back. I have severe scoliosis, and needed surgery when I was fifteen.

Our relationship was complicated by the time we found out about my back, but the minute we realized that I was really crooked, he became my rock. He was there for all of it. He took me to the doctor, nagged me about wearing my brace, held my hand when I was wheeled off to surgery. He was that way whenever any really bad thing happened to me. When I experienced heartbreak or some devastating unfairness, he stepped up as a protector and problem solver and calming voice. He was often the only person that could make me feel better.

But, my dad wasn’t usually the type to talk about his feelings. You always had to read between the lines with him, look for context clues. And before Jenna told him how nice it feels when people say “I love you,” he almost never said it. 

After dementia, he’d say it. 

But before then, if you read the tea leaves right, he’d show you. His gentleness when I was dealing with my scoliosis showed “I love you!” His face on the day that he couldn’t find me at a river in New Hampshire, the one time I ever saw him really afraid, showed “I love you!” 

His enthusiastic embrace of Kyle showed “I love you!” and “I understand you.” He told me how happy it made him to see the way that Kyle and I were constantly brushing against each other, grasping fingers, touching shoulders, checking in physically. Staying connected in a way that my dad knew I needed.

My dad’s tenderness was private and precious, a rich vein that he usually kept hidden. He lived a booming life, full of adventure and accomplishments that gave him a very interesting obituary.

But underneath it all, beneath layers of success and ambition and the dazzling face he showed to the world, beat a delicate heart that loved his little girl dearly. I will miss it for the rest of my life. 

Tom Conway Does It Again From the Great Beyond isn’t my favorite of your works, but it aint half bad.

I love you, mate. Kyle will always take care of me.