remembering dad
Yesterday — Monday, March 6, 2006 — was four years since my father's death. Four years! Sometimes it feels like it's been a lot longer than that; sometimes my arms and my heart ache for the hugs he used to give. More often than not, it feels like he's still here, too busy doing his own thing and living his own life to call as often as he'd like — same as his daughter. A lot has happened in the past four years. Four years ago, I spent day after day in the hospital, watching what brain cancer can do to a strong, relatively young (he was only 55) man. Now I spend day after day in the hospital, watching brain cancer — or stroke, or some other neurological nightmare —claim someone else’s father. Or mother, or son or daughter. But that's another blog ...
Really, it's an amazing (and scary) thing: a few rogue cells doing their own thing in the midst of an otherwise healthy and amazing organ — and poof! The former Marine and Vietnam vet; MD State Police lieutenant and SWAT commander; husband, father, and grandfather who loves tapioca pudding and Disney movies just as much as a good margarita, a good Maryland-Duke game, and his Harley — suddenly becomes the patient who must be watched so he doesn't fall out of his bed; the 180-pound man whose still well-formed muscles betray him when he tries to stand up by himself; a smart guy who now uses what's left of that sharp wit to trick his daughters into thinking he really did eat his dinner (the plate still on the floor, his favorite mashed potatoes and spinach being enjoyed by his poodle, Lacey); the tough guy who must now ask his girls or his Hospice nurse for help when he has to go to the bathroom.
In the end, it was peaceful. He was home, in his basement family room, fire in the fireplace, a basketball game on TV, his two best friends hanging out with us. It could have been any other night, really; even Lacey was lying right next to him, just like she always used to nap with him on their favorite end of the couch. Only the couch had been replaced with a hospital bed, and Dad wasn’t yelling at Lacey to stop licking his hand. He hadn’t spoken in a few days, and the morphine pump had thankfully put an end to the restless jerking and labored breathing.
I was sitting at the head of the bed, unconsciously stroking Dad’s head softly while we all laughed at the stories we shared to make ourselves feel better. I’d noticed that his breathing had changed. We all had, but it wasn’t necessary to talk about it. Eventually, though, I realized that there was no next breath. I looked up at the clock; it was 11:07 pm. I kissed him and told him I loved him, my eyes on the clock the entire time, trying as hard as I could to burn every detail of our last few moments together into my memory. I knew that soon enough I’d be desperate to remember what it felt like to be with him … sort of like how I feel every New Year’s Eve, when even as the ball drops my mind is scrambling to hold on, frantically thinking that in just a few seconds the whole year will be gone, over just like that, never ever to exist again, other than as a memory that threatens to fade if you don’t try really hard to save it. At 11:10, Dad’s friend Steve put his hand on my shoulder, and my mind quieted. The year was over, so to speak, and there was not a thing we could do about it.
Really, it's an amazing (and scary) thing: a few rogue cells doing their own thing in the midst of an otherwise healthy and amazing organ — and poof! The former Marine and Vietnam vet; MD State Police lieutenant and SWAT commander; husband, father, and grandfather who loves tapioca pudding and Disney movies just as much as a good margarita, a good Maryland-Duke game, and his Harley — suddenly becomes the patient who must be watched so he doesn't fall out of his bed; the 180-pound man whose still well-formed muscles betray him when he tries to stand up by himself; a smart guy who now uses what's left of that sharp wit to trick his daughters into thinking he really did eat his dinner (the plate still on the floor, his favorite mashed potatoes and spinach being enjoyed by his poodle, Lacey); the tough guy who must now ask his girls or his Hospice nurse for help when he has to go to the bathroom.
In the end, it was peaceful. He was home, in his basement family room, fire in the fireplace, a basketball game on TV, his two best friends hanging out with us. It could have been any other night, really; even Lacey was lying right next to him, just like she always used to nap with him on their favorite end of the couch. Only the couch had been replaced with a hospital bed, and Dad wasn’t yelling at Lacey to stop licking his hand. He hadn’t spoken in a few days, and the morphine pump had thankfully put an end to the restless jerking and labored breathing.
I was sitting at the head of the bed, unconsciously stroking Dad’s head softly while we all laughed at the stories we shared to make ourselves feel better. I’d noticed that his breathing had changed. We all had, but it wasn’t necessary to talk about it. Eventually, though, I realized that there was no next breath. I looked up at the clock; it was 11:07 pm. I kissed him and told him I loved him, my eyes on the clock the entire time, trying as hard as I could to burn every detail of our last few moments together into my memory. I knew that soon enough I’d be desperate to remember what it felt like to be with him … sort of like how I feel every New Year’s Eve, when even as the ball drops my mind is scrambling to hold on, frantically thinking that in just a few seconds the whole year will be gone, over just like that, never ever to exist again, other than as a memory that threatens to fade if you don’t try really hard to save it. At 11:10, Dad’s friend Steve put his hand on my shoulder, and my mind quieted. The year was over, so to speak, and there was not a thing we could do about it.
posted by Kimberly at 11:57 PM
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