Gone Fishing: The Story of a Promise Kept

"Will you take care of my fish?" my father asked.

It was during the last weeks of my father's life. He was in hospice and he was dying. He couldn't control that, so he was trying to control everything, and everyone around him, by asking us to do stuff for him.

Some of the asks were simple requests; things that would make his last days more enjoyable. He asked me to order him a book, sign him up for Hulu, buy him cigarettes, pick up his favorite strawberry shortcake at the bakery. Easy stuff to oblige.

Other requests were focused on after he was gone. He asked me to look out for our mother (which my brothers and I would have done regardless). He asked to be buried in his blue suit. He requested that all three of his kids speak at his funeral and that the rabbi, who didn't really know him, not pretend that he did.

And he asked me to take care of the fish — not once, but many, many times.

Like every request he made during that time, I didn't think, I automatically said yes. "Of course, Dad," I replied each time he mentioned it. "Don't worry. I'll take care of the fish."

Turns out, I should have hesitated before agreeing. Taking care of the fish was a complicated ask.

It had been a long and emotional few days for everyone between the funeral and Shiva. It was late in the afternoon when my husband and I, along with our three adult children, started getting ready to say goodbye and head home.

"We need to get the fish," I reminded my husband. Exhausted, he asked if we could wait and get them on our next visit. But I was adamant. I had followed every request my father made — buried him in the blue suit, spoke at the funeral alongside my brothers (and ensured the rabbi didn't say much). This was the last request to be fulfilled and I wasn't going to let my father down.

But how would we transport these seven fish to our house, 90 minutes away in a different state? Bringing my dad's 30-gallon tank to our house wasn't going to work, so we had to take just the seven fish. My sister-in-law suggested we put them in plastic food storage containers.

On the ride back to New Jersey, the three kids all researched on their phones how to transfer fish from one tank to another. They didn't even change their clothes when we got home because they wanted to get to the pet store before it closed to buy a new tank, along with other fish equipment.

We learned that you can't just dump fish into the new tank. The new system needed to run for 24 hours. At that point, the water temperature needs to be tested to ensure it is suitable for the fish. Once all systems are go, the fish could be safely transferred.  

The whole thing was a lot more difficult than any of us had anticipated. But once it was done, the kids and my husband felt a sense of accomplishment. They knew their grandfather would be pleased that they had all worked together on this project. And I felt a sense of relief I hadn't felt since Dad passed. I had fulfilled my promise.

Two days later, I went to the tank and discovered that six of the seven fish were dead.

I ran downstairs to the living room in tears. My husband Rich nodded; he had discovered the mass demise hours earlier but hadn't had the heart to tell me. "This what I was afraid of," he said as he came over to hug me. "I worried that the fish would die and it would feel like your dad dying all over again."

While it wasn't as bad as that, I did feel a terrible sense of loss. I let my father down. My dad was gone, and all but one of his fish was gone, too.

My father knew everything about fish and fish tanks. He had owned many over the years and had a particular one for almost a decade.

When the kids were little, they always asked my dad about the fish in his tank when they visited. Sometimes he would take them to the fish store, let them feed the fish, or ask them to help him clean the tank. Then they got older and became disinterested, like teens tend to do. 

And I didn't pay much attention to my father's fish either. It was just another of my father's hobbies, and I didn't have much interest. I viewed the tank as another piece of furniture in the den of my parents' home, no different than the chair he sat in and the small table where he left his book and reading glasses.

But the tank wasn't like furniture because it contained living creatures that needed to be cared for and nurtured. My dad knew this; he knew all about fish and tanks. It had been a hobby of his since I was a little kid.

Surely he knew that there was beneficial bacteria in the old tank. He could have easily explained that we needed to take hard surfaces from the original aquarium (such as rocks, gravel and decorations) so that the fish would thrive in the new environment.

Instead, he had told us nothing and we learned it on our own, the hard way. In retrospect, that could have been the whole point.

Yes, my dad cared about the fish and didn't want them to be forgotten or die. But even more than that, my dad did not want to be forgotten. By taking the fish, we took a piece of him home with us. Even if only one was still alive, having a fish tank in our home was a living reminder of my dad. It's a hobby he loved and now we have embraced it, too.

We set the tank up in my son's bedroom on his desk. He had left for college that August, so before that, I had mostly avoided walking in there for fear it would make me teary to be painfully reminded that I am officially an empty nester. 

Instead, now I walk into my son's room each day and feel at peace. "Good morning, Bernie," I say as I turn on the light to feed the fish. We named the lone survivor Bernie after my father, whose middle name was Bernard. He is a fighter just like my dad. We also bought size six new fish, almost identical to the ones my father owned.

It's been four months since my father died. Staring at the tank in my son's old room, I feel comforted and connected. Don't worry, Dad, I'm taking care of the fish, just like I told you I would.

Randi Mazzella is a freelance writer specializing in a wide range of topics from parenting to pop culture to life after 50. She is a mother of three grown children and lives in New Jersey with her husband.  Read more of her work on randimazzella.com. Read More