Gene Heffintrayer, right, with his wife, Barbara, left, following their wedding in 1979.
Loving and content.
I’ve written and edited this essay at least five times in my head over the last 14 years, trying to find the words and phrases to properly encapsulate an enigmatic man who wasn’t known to many, yet meant everything to me and those around him. Each time, however, that man would push the pause button on my efforts to memorialize his life by defying the odds and living to fight another day.
That man was my father, Gene Heffintrayer.
My father initially went on hospice in September 2009, and amidst several weeks of visits from in-home nurses and doctors, a distinct memory stands out among the chaos: his doctor arriving to inform me she thought he likely wouldn’t make it another 24 hours. I vividly remember my then-girlfriend consoling me, the fear and uncertainty, and the grief already creeping in. We stayed with him as his condition began to worsen, we tried to stay positive and hopeful, and then the most bizarre thing occurred: he…stopped getting worse.
Over the weeks that followed, my father made a near-full recovery, and roughly one month after his doctor told us to prepare for his passing, he was no longer on hospice.
Such would become a running theme for him over the years that followed.
We rallied our family to the ICCU in June 2010 when my father developed a severe blood infection two weeks after my mother died, and again a year later when he suffered a heart attack, with the ensuing fall causing a massive brain bleed. In October 2018, my father was transferred to full time nursing care after I discovered he had a massive infection that landed him back in the ICU, and in February 2022 he again went on hospice with a terminal case of congestive heart failure.
In each of those instances, I had medical professionals either tell me they did not expect him to survive or advise I should bring in his loved ones to potentially see him one last time. And I will never fault those professionals for being direct and candid with me — these were clear cases where survivability was woefully unlikely.
And yet, he survived each time…until now.
My father passed away early Sunday morning at Lansdale Hospital, four days before he was set to turn 80 years old. Just days ago, my wife, daughter, and I were putting together plans for his birthday, and now we’re planning funeral arrangements instead.
As I write this, it’s been less than 24 hours since I stood by his side and looked on helplessly as he took his last breath, yet it feels like weeks have passed. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and hours become days.
Despite having previously outlined this write-up five times in my mind, I find myself struggling to accurately convey who my father was, and just how important he was to those that were fortunate enough to have known him. My mind runs awash in an adjective-heavy word cloud, with two words becoming more prominent and recurrent.
Loving and content.
My father was a youthful member of the Silent Generation who was pulled out of school in seventh grade to work on his family’s farm. Early mornings and hard work weren’t enough to tame his rebellious side, though, and he made his share of mistakes in his teens, 20s, and early 30s, ultimately leading him to becoming paralyzed after falling down a flight of stairs during a drunken bender.
I never knew that man.
In the years that followed, he learned to walk again, he met my mother, and they had me. The man he became post-paralysis stood in stark contrast to who he was prior, but he never really spoke about what caused the change. I’ve often thought it was a mix between realizing the life he was leading would never lead to peace and happiness, juxtaposed with meeting my mother at the right time in his life. She was a kind, loving soul, and if he wanted to be with her, he’d have to better himself.
My father — the version I knew and the version he maintained through the end — was warm, loving, and unfazed by adversity. He wasn’t the teaching type, yet I learned so much from observing. He wasn’t the active type, yet he showed up to my ball games to support me. He showed tremendous patience and allowed me to make mistakes, yet dropped the hammer on me whenever I would knowingly make poor choices.
He wasn’t ambitious. He didn’t set goals and achieve them. He wasn’t engaged in the community. He never vacationed anywhere. He just existed with love for my mother and I, and that was enough for him.
When I was younger, I struggled to reconcile my father’s existence versus his level of happiness. He was a good man, a good father… and the antithesis of everything I was otherwise taught to do: set goals, achieve goals, five year plans, 10 year plans, pursue greatness, achieve, produce, rinse and repeat.
Only as the years passed and my understanding of the world grew would I begin to truly appreciate his peacefully stoic disposition, and that disposition carried our family through many troubling times. Whether it was my parents going through bankruptcy and losing their house, or my mother suffering a trauma that resulted in her forgetting who we were, he was always the same person. He forged ahead, leading with actions instead of words, and maintaining stability without complaint.
The only time I every truly saw a crack in his armor was when he said goodbye as my mother passed, and those cries will echo in my mind forever — not just because of the loss, but because of the sheer love and devotion one must have for another person to feel that way.
Otherwise, he was just content with his life and showed love to those around him. He also loved the Phillies and the Eagles. He loved a good cheesesteak with a side of buffalo wings. He loved oldies music and Motown. He loved learning about the cosmos, and even the occasional conspiracy about alien contact.
Put simply: he loved, generally.
I can’t list his accomplishments, professional associations, degrees earned, or anything in the public space that an outsider could latch on to or identify with. But I can tell you he, along with my mother, taught me to find value and appreciation in everything, and to live presently and in the moment. He was a driving force, intentional or otherwise, in the revelation that one’s life needs nothing more than a foundation built on love.
As I sit here in the earliest stage of grief, I find myself focusing on the parallels between his life and mine. I, too, was rebellious. I, too, made more mistakes than I would like to admit, and I, too, carry my share of regrets.. And, like him, I also met someone in my late 30s that forced me to change and become a better version of myself.
It’s uncanny.
Much like my father, the person I am now is far different than the person I was. Much like my father, I’m very content in life, and I strive to put out as much love into the world as he put into me. I don’t think I’ve ever realized the parallel until now, and I wish I had sooner, as I would have told him that I’ve unknowingly built the foundation of my life off my own observations of his.
I did get to tell him that I loved him, though, and that he was a great father and husband. With his last words, he said he loved me, my daughter, and my wife, adding he was proud of who we all had become.
He lived a quiet, fulfilling life, yet had an earnest impact on the few of us fortunate enough to share space with him. And as I continue with my life, I’ll carry with each breath the lessons and virtues I’ve drawn from his — both in the hopes of becoming a man as good as he was while also carrying on the legacy he unknowing left behind.
Obituary: Gene Heffintrayer, of Lansdale, Dies at 79
Gene Heffintrayer, 79, of Lansdale, passed away with his son by his side on Sunday, Aug. 20, 2023. He was a son of the late Charles and Anna (Frable) Heffintrayer and worked as a machinist for many years before retiring due to disability.
Gene is survived by his brother, Richard Heffintrayer, sister, Margaret Woodring, son, Keith Heffintrayer, daughter, Carol Van Dooren, daughter in law, Jaime Silverstein, son in law, Ivan Van Dooren, granddaughters Evelyn Heffintrayer and Peighton Van Dooren, grandsons Jeff Wise, Ethan Van Dooren, and Elam Van Dooren, and great-grandson Jace Wise.
He was preceded in death by his wife of 31 years, Barbara Heffintrayer, as well as brothers Earl Heffintrayer and Charles Heffintrayer Jr., and sisters Shirley Frey, Elaine Clewell, and Dolores Kocher.
Services will be held privately.
