Joseph R. Romano

Joe, Pop, Giuseppi, Uncle Joe, Pop Pop, or Da. No matter what you might have called him, I am almost certain he will be remembered by all of us as a man who loved life, friends, and above all, family.

We will all remember Joe differently. You may remember him as the man who incessantly bragged about his children, almost at nauseum, which I apologize for.

Or as the neighbor sitting in the garage with the door open waving at passers by.

The friend who loved Friday night pizza who got a secret charge out of inciting people with discussions of politics.

The Pop Pop who you could rely on for a great antipaste, a box full of donuts, and a hug that would break your ribs.

The brother whose phone calls you would look forward to, knowing there was an argument to be had, but always hung up with a smile and a warm heart.

The proud uncle, always with the encouraging word and the unbiased opinion.

The husband - center of your being, the key to your heart, your steadying force.

The man who was happiest sitting on his couch, tinkering in his garage and taking trips to the mall.

The man who said "It doesn't get any better than this."

The man who you saw as invincible, only to realize he was human.

The man who made it his mission to care for you.

The husband who now conceded that he needed your help. You cared for him unwaveringly. You loved him unconditionally. That is why he chose you.

The father... so much to say. I speak as a daughter and a son right now:

Da, Joseph and I thank you for keeping us whole when we felt fractured. You gave us love when you had only reserves in your heart. You made it your mission to keep us on path despite the many roads we encountered.

Da, you were more than a father - you were a friend, a confidant, and an adviser. You taught us well and we will continue our lives with the lessons you bestowed upon us.

As we sit here today, I ask that we do not mourn the loss of my dad, but celebrate the love he brought to our hearts. Joe went out with no regrets and he did it his way.

I would like to share something I wrote while Joseph and I sat at his bedside one night:

"It is 4am. I am sitting here in a situation that feels oddly natural. As a nurse, this environment is as familiar as the back of my hand. The occasional moans of patients is like a distant white noise and monitor alarms are similar to that of a distasteful song. As a daughter, it's as if this is the first time I'm in a hospital. That white noise that now comes from my father is like nails on a chalkboard. The distasteful song is more like a heavy metal band. The once familiar place seems foreign to me. I sit here beside a man who paced the floors with my colic little body. The man who would let me take a sip of his Budweiser as we watched the Met game. The man who dedicated his last waking moment renovating a home that by all accounts should have been condemned. This same man who made it his mission to provide as much as a stable home as one could make in a not so stable situation. This man has always been my rock to keep me grounded, my buoy to keep me afloat, and my shield to keep me from harm, all while providing unconditional love. I sit in this room with the hum of the workings around me. The only thing I can provide this man is the comfort and the promise that he will not die alone. I take pleasure in giving him the ice chips to quench his parched mouth and the slight relief he gets from being repositioned. I find comfort in knowing that he knows he is not alone. "