NOTE: Before you read this post, be advised that this is an extremely emotional post. Today is the 10th anniversary of my father's passing, and I'm handling it with a myriad of emotions. My post today offers glances into the impressive memories I still carry, and documents (perhaps imperfectly) certain parts of the chronology of My Dad's last days. It is not meant to be a story of conversion or witnessing, or a testimonial about medicine, end-of-life care, etc. It's not intended to stir up any kind of controversy. It's simply me needing to release the power of the grief I carry, remember My Dad, and to give and receive love.
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The tiny, bright-eyed almost-four-month old little girl and I packed up our weekend necessities then packed into my little 1994 Acura Integra to make our weekly weekend jaunt to San Angelo from Dallas - about a five or six hour drive.
The previous Christmas, My Father announced his decision to refuse any more cancer treatment (he had already endured 18+ months of it, and exceeded all life-expectancy projections). Privately to him, I committed that I would bring My Baby and we would come see him each weekend. My Baby was his first biological grandchild - his legacy. I was determined that the two of them -- well, all of us -- would spend as much time together as possible before Fate punctuated it with a period. Daddy told me at Christmas, "The doctors say I could live as long as six months or more, so no need to put yourself through all that stress."
Daddy lived only six more weeks. The Baby and I made it to San Angelo five out of those six weeks before he died.
I had an analog cellular phone back then.
I was just about to turn off I-20 onto Loop 206 at Cisco, when My Mom called.
"He's fallen! I can't get him up!" Her voice was trembling, panicked and fear-filled.
I offered some advice, then told her I'd be out of pocket for a bit because of the lack of cellular service, but I'd get there as soon as I could and would call her once service was available again.
When I arrived to the house, Daddy was off the floor and laying in their bedroom, a smile greeting me and My Baby.
A hospital bed - Daddy's death bed - was delivered and set up in the dining room of My Parents home that day.
I did not believe in God that day.
That was Friday, February 3, 2001.
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Daddy gifted his sisters & me with a game of Hollywood Gin while savoring Blue Bell Banana Split ice cream. He insisted on keeping score.
It was so hard to see him hold the pen to the paper and not make the symbols that his once quick-witted and very bright mind was envisioning. Clearly, there was a disconnect between his reality and everyone elses. It was pretty tricky, really, because his body made the movements that are so familiar: picked up the pen with his right hand, turned his eyes to the pad of paper, moved his hand to write, pressed down the tip of the pen to the paper..... There was just never a number written on the paper - the pen locked between dyingofcancerbrain and every day action.
Yet, we all smiled, continued playing as if there was no cancer, as if there was nothing wrong at all, as if it were another holidayish get-together. Our eyes did indeed shift back and forth, glances speaking fears and worries. Daddy's eyes were bright and smiling.
He had a good day that day.
Alas, it was his Last Hurrah, so to speak. Sisters & friends who had been coming over throughout the day had all left for the evening - just Mom, Baby, Dad and me. Daddy's condition deteriorated quickly as the dark of the night blanketed Texas. He became immobile, difficult to understand and quite agitated when awake. He communicated with his sinking and fading eyes, as well as grunts. He would try to use his hands, yet his arms seemed weighted, wrists restrained. There were no restraints, though.
I was holding My Baby who was being very playful and occasionally fussy. Daddy could hear her and his eyes would dart toward her voice. At one time, his weak fingers motioned me over and his eyes looked at mine, then looked to My Eldest then to his chest. He wanted me to put her on his belly. So I did. They were belly to belly. She studied him, serious at times, looking to me for answers and assurance, then would break out into the biggest, brightest smile. She offered it to me, and gave it to him. His fingers reached to touch her. I helped him reach up and put his hand on her back. A tear spilled out of outside corner of his eye and it meandered down his temple, over his ear until it was absorbed back into his body.
Talk about being so elated and so sad at the same time -- wow! I was keenly aware of the magnitude of that moment in time. It's still so raw for me....
I did not believe in God that day.
That was Saturday, February 4, 2001.
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Watching my now-unconscious Dad, in what I could interpret only as him walking backwards through his life, I remain wowed by the argumentative utterances, the grunts that seemed like laughter, unintelligible words that seemed so joyous in tone, or even commanding. At times, he'd raise his arm and mimic a handshake. Other times, both arms would raise and his hands would flail as if he were giving someone a hug. Yet other times, his arms were postured as he held a rifle.
I wondered, sitting there in the sun on the powder blue loveseat, if Daddy was greeting friends on his walk into The Light. Or, was he reconciling his heavy heart in some way? Is he hunting or in Viet Nam? Is he ordering soldiers? Is he arguing with my mom? Is he actually being reunited with friends, deceased Army buddies, his own father and mother? WHAT is going on in that head of his?! I realized how little I knew about My Father's life suddenly. I suppose I know all that I need to know, though.
He was on some sort of journey.
I comforted Daddy in every way except one. I couldn't bring myself to do that part. My Mother did it instead. I felt so helpless. Mom was amazing.
I did not believe in God that day. I didn't not believe, either.
That was Sunday, February 6th, 2001.
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My brother made his travel-to-Texas plans.
I read the pamphlet from Hospice which detailed the death process for cancer victims. I distinctly remember these words: secretions, Cheyne Stoke breathing, eliminate. The pamphlet also said, often, the sick person will have this ONE DAY where the person will seem to be his/her "old self". I would say the Hollywood Gin day was that ONE DAY.
Hospice arrived because we called them when the secretions began. Then, true to the pamphlet information, that creepy breathing began. Having been enlightened and empowered with the medical process of a dying cancer victim, I honed in on watching for the signs.
A little later, My Baby was napping. I'm still not sure where My Mom and all the other people were, but I had the gift of this moment alone with My Dad. So I took the time to sit next to him. I curled my fingers around his rough hand. I could tell he was miserable. I don't know how or what it was exactly, but I just new he was ready. Was he holding on for My Brother to arrive? I had heard about those folks who are dying that seem to wait for permission to die. They hold on for something or someone and until there's some arrival or permission, the misery endures.
I didn't want My Father to be in any more discomfort.
"Daddy, if you're waiting for My Brother, don't. He will understand. He knows. If you need and want to go, then go. We all love you." Then I leaned over and kissed his knuckle. "I love you."
I sat there quietly for a few moments more until My Baby stirred awake. I stood up from the bedside and scooped that Little Girl - the next in the Circle of Life - into my embrace, held her tightly against my bosom to the bedroom. After changing her diaper, she and I danced down the hall to return to where My Dad was, and My Mom took My Baby from me, "Let me hold her. The lady from Hospice needs to talk to you."
My Dad had just died.
Just like that -- less than ten minutes after our "talk" -- he was gone.
One eye wide open, one eye mostly shut, his mouth agape and body hollow of soul, he was gone.
I exhaled.
Later that day, as I cried in the shower with my face pressed against the cold tile with the hot water soothing me, comforting me, a special gift was given to me. It was from God.
I was converted at that moment; I came to believe.
That was Wednesday, February 7, 2001.
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You might notice that I changed the music. The songs are:
- You Never Even Called Me By My Name (The Darlin' Darlin' Song) ~ David Allen Coe
- Don't It Make Your Brown Eyes Blue ~ Crystal Gayle
- Wasted Days And Wasted Nights ~ Freddy Fender
- She's Got You ~ Patsy Cline
- She Believes In Me ~ Kenny Rogers
This music reminds me of growing up, of My Dad, of times with him or things about him. For example, the Freddy Fender song is My Parents wedding anniversary song. The DAC song is one we'd play during The Bronc's world-famous fish fry get-togethers. The whole inside of the bar and all the folks cooking and shooting bull on the outside of the bar would sing along. SO! GREAT!
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| ~ the lake where My Dad rests ~ |
