When my father went into the hospital two years ago, just a few
months before we moved to California, I remember thinking, “I don’t know what I
would do if he died.”
Now, I know.
I was almost out the door for my physical on August 11, when
Mom called to tell me I needed to get on a plane and come home. Home is Adams,
MA, a six-hour non-stop flight if you can afford it, a half-day traveling the
red-eye if you can’t. At that point, Dad had been in the hospital again for a
little over a week for breathing problems. They discovered he had bacterial
pneumonia, something I think many of us assumed would be treatable. Even though
he had been on dialysis for two years for kidney disease, he had just gone on a
family vacation at their timeshare on the Cape, and spent the previous weekend
at my sister’s for my niece’s birthday party. He appeared to be doing just
fine.
But when he woke up my mother at 4 a.m., his last words to
her were, “I’m sorry. I waited too long.”
We never found out what he meant by that. The police came
and put him on oxygen, but it wasn’t enough. He was taken by ambulance to
Berkshire Medical Center Critical Care Unit, and hooked up to various machines.
They tried to do his regular dialysis, along with smaller attempts to clear all
the fluid that plagued his body. There were times he appeared to be improving
and breathing on his own. But it didn’t last long, and the more they tried to
do, the more agitated Dad became. They were running out of options. That’s when
they told Mom it was time to make some phone calls.
I got into Boston early Friday morning, where my sister,
Rachel, and niece picked me up. We went back to her house where I attempted to
get some sleep, as my plane ride neighbor from Phoenix to Boston was drunk and
high (which he told me right as he sat down) and talked to me for the entire
five-and-a-half-hour flight. But throughout the day, Rachel got calls, I got
calls, and my mind was too chaotic with thoughts of what might be for any
chance of rest. The two of us got on the road after dinner, as Rachel and her
husband had a meeting about their mortgage at 5 p.m. It was the first of
several reminders that life was going to continue no matter what happened.
However, Dad was still alive at that point, so it didn’t register as anything
but a regular schedule.
That changed, though, once we got to the hospital. Both my
sisters, being local, had seen him and I had not, so Rachel gave me a few
minutes alone with him. And that’s when I realized I wasn’t ready.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen my dad hooked up to
machines, looking pale, tired. But it was the first time I almost didn’t
recognize him. And it wasn’t just the oxygen mask covering his face. His eyes
were glossy, his attention, diverted, and when he did look at me there was no
hint of the man who always greeted me with, “Hey, there she is!” He seemed to
know who I was, sure - he turned to me at the mention of my name, and squeezed
my hand, just a bit, when I sat down next to him. But my father was gone.
And what do you say, then? What do you say in those moments
- when it’s just you and someone you’ve loved your entire life - and you’ve no
idea how many moments you have left with them? When you know absolutely nothing
until you walk in the room, and the blips and beeps and shallow breathing suddenly
become your reality. When life goes from something you take for granted, to the
most valuable and fragile hope there is. What do you say?
A month later, and I still don’t know. You see it in books
and movies all the time, characters getting a chance to unburden themselves by
saying things that had been left unsaid for years. Or the patient has some
poetic monologue about the fleeting joys of life and how they’ve come to terms
with death. And then there’s the classic exchange between the dying and their
family where they say just the right thing before the heart monitor flat lines.
There’s none of that in my story. I choked out how sad I was
that he wouldn’t see the final draft of my second book. Everything else was
lost in tears.
The next day my sisters and I, along with my mom and aunt,
met with the doctors to decide the next course of action. They told us Dad had
multi-organ dysfunction. His kidneys had already failed, which we knew, but
then his lungs took a hit with the pneumonia. After that his heart took a hit
when he had a small heart attack. And we had reached a point where his brain
was taking a hit with bouts of delirium. During his time in the hospital, he
had tried to take out the tube down his throat, along with the tubes in his
arms during dialysis. Because of this, the doctors labeled what they were doing
as “aggressive care.”
There was one thing they could try to keep Dad alive, which
was a tracheostomy. But that meant he would come away with a tube in his throat
and another in his stomach. And that’s how he would remain for the rest of his
life, most likely having to go into a nursing home where he would be unable to
do much else.
My sister, Angie, had a few questions about that option, and
voiced our shared concern that the person’s life we were talking about was
unable to offer his opinion. Even though he had tried to remove the tubes, his
state of mind was such that we felt he didn’t fully understand his options. But
when the doctor told us there was no repairing the damage to his organs, that
he would only get worse, there seemed to be no choice left. We all agreed to
their suggestion of “comfort care.”
He was moved that night to a private room on the floor above
the CCU, where anyone could go and visit. Everything was removed from him,
except an oxygen tube in his nose, and an IV for pain meds when he wanted them.
That Sunday, he had dozens of visitors, and I went in the evening for three
hours and sat with him and Mom. The conversation was light with her, and I knew
I wanted to do something more for Dad. My conversations with him were never
small talk, and I wasn’t about to start now. So I decided I would go back the
next day and read to him from his favorite book, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
I waited until the evening again, when most people had
already visited, and it was just Angie and Mom, who suggested going to dinner
first. Mom wanted to eat at the hospital, but Angie and I convinced her to go
out to a nearby restaurant. When we returned a little over an hour later, Angie
decided instead of just dropping us off, she would go up and see Dad one last
time before she left to go back to her own home.
That’s when we discovered Dad hardly breathing, color completely
drained.
Mom rushed to get the nurse, and the three of us waited in
the longest silence I’ve ever felt for her to tell us if there was a heartbeat.
She said it was faint, but by the time she knelt down again to double check,
there was nothing. He had died.
It’s funny the things that go through your mind at a time
like that. I was sitting in a chair next to the table where I had placed the
book, and my first thought was, “Damn it! We were going to have this incredibly
meaningful night, finally, and now I’ll never have another one with him again.”
After the doctor left, I held the book and voiced my disappointment about not
being able to read to him. That’s when Angie told me to start, right then,
since they say hearing is the last thing to go. So, through plenty of tears and
a strained voice, I began to read the first chapter. To avoid interrupting me,
she and Mom walked to the other side of the room and started making phone
calls.
All of a sudden, I heard the toilet flush, and Angie say,
“What the hell?” I could see her out of the corner of my eye standing in the
bathroom with the door open, so I knew she wasn’t using the facilities. Another
minute later, the toilet flushed again, followed by more exclamations from my
sister. That’s when Mom walked over to see what the heck was going on,
suggesting she step away from it. A third flush and I finally turned my head to
say, “Come on! I’m reading here!”
“I know!” Angie exclaimed. “That’s why I’m trying to make
calls in here! But the stupid thing keeps flushing! I’m not even on it!”
So there we were: me in a chair near the bed, Mom at the
other end of the room, Angie trying to steer clear of the toilet, and my dad lying
there, dead. And that’s when it hit me – Dad would’ve been the first person to
appreciate all this ridiculousness. He would’ve been teasing Angie, laughing at
me, and smiling at Mom. I started chuckling at the thought, and soon I was in
hysterics, in every sense of the word.
And it didn’t stop there. After my aunt, my cousin, and her
husband came to say their good-byes, we all took the elevator to the first
floor. And for some weird reason, the elevator stopped at every single floor,
with no one there. We all mused it was Dad playing one last practical joke on
us. Then on the way home, Angie and Mom were in one car listening to the radio
when the Paul Simon song, “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” came on. “Death is one
way,” Mom said. And in my lone car ride home, one of my favorite dance songs
came on the radio in the middle of my tears. I instinctively turned it up, as I
always do, and that sent me into another fit of laughter.
I don’t know the science behind what happens in your brain
when you’re grieving, but I now understand how people make it through the first
few days after a death. I was terrible when it came to wakes, funerals, and memorials.
I hate death, and I never knew what to say to people dealing with death. When
my grandparents passed away I was a complete mess, along with every time I went
to a service in support of someone else dealing with a family death. So how the
hell was I going to deal with the death of someone as close as my Dad?
Apparently I had two speeds: normal and crying. While Angie
and I helped Mom with the funeral arrangements, it was like a switch had turned
off the emotional center and enhanced the organizational side. You have no
choice but to take care of business. We methodically filled out the paperwork
and met with the funeral director, and had everything scheduled within an hour
or so. Even having the get-together (not a wake, because my dad hated those) on
the same day as my parents’ 49th anniversary was not a deterrent,
because Mom wanted to have the funeral on that Saturday. That meant the
get-together made the most sense on that Friday.
But it was in the quieter moments that crying mode took
over. Looking at all the pictures Angie collected for the get-together, sitting
in Dad’s recliner watching a Red Sox game, walking past his cane hanging on the
bannister, writing the eulogy. It didn’t take much for the tears to flow. Thankfully,
normal mode still allowed for some laughter once in a while.
Like at the get-together, we placed one of his baseball caps
on the urn, along with a pair of his suspenders. Next to that we put an old
(empty) bottle of Wild Turkey, his drink of choice for special occasions, and a
can of Pepsi which he would have as a chaser. Apparently one of the guests
thought it was trash and went to move it, and was stopped by someone who had to
explain why it was there. And at the end of the Catholic funeral mass, I read
the eulogy that began with one of his favorite blonde jokes.
Afterward at the cemetery, my sisters, my mom and I were
sitting at his gravesite under a tent with everyone else standing around us.
That’s when I felt something crawling on my hand, and looked down to see a
caterpillar. “How did you get there?” I wondered as I brushed it off onto the
ground. But that thing really wanted to be on me, because a minute later it
crawled onto my toes. So I took a tissue and picked it up, but had nowhere to
put it. Thankfully Cai was standing near me, so I handed it to him to get rid
of it in the woods behind us. But even he had trouble getting the damn thing
off, and my first thought was, “Geez, I hope that’s not a reincarnated version
of Dad I almost squished.” Not that I believe in that, but if it were a movie,
that wouldn’t have been such a strange idea! I still chuckle at the thought.
But weeks later, I now realize what I should’ve been asking,
is how will I deal with Dad’s death for the rest of my life? I didn’t think
about scheduling a flight back for two weeks, because it hurt every time I
thought about leaving Mom behind and alone in the house. I wanted to be around
the people who knew him and loved him as much as I did. And it felt like a
betrayal to Dad to go back to my life in California, as if life would just
continue like nothing happened.
Of course, life does continue, and my two modes of thinking
now crash into each other on a regular basis. I get up, I go to work, I hang
out with friends, I go out to dinner with Cai, I read in my writing groups, and
I work out with my trainer. But suddenly, asking “How are you?” has become the
most complicated question you can ask me. Because I’m still trying to figure
that out.
Even my views on how I want to live my life are in flux, and
I thought I had a good handle on that at age 38. I’m questioning where I am,
what I’m doing, and if there’s any point in even asking such things. It’s not
like there’s a right or wrong answer to any of it. And I can go from watching a
mindless TV show to tears streaming down my face in a few seconds, with no one
thing being the cause. I suppose nothing needs to “trigger” that reaction- the
despair surrounding Dad’s death is always there. And that’s what my brain is
struggling to unravel.
Others who have gone through the same experience have told
me this never really goes away, because there’s nothing that will bring Dad
back to us. And they, too, have questioned their beliefs on life and death, no
matter how old they are or where they are in their lives. But one friend told
me that even though the highs may not be as high as they once were, the lows
will also never be as low as they are right now. At least that’s something to
hope for.
Dad's eulogy
“To travel hopefully
is better than to arrive”
So a blonde walks into a small appliance store and finds a
bargain. She says to the salesman, “I’d like to buy this TV.” Salesman says,
“Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes.” Angry, she drives home and dyes her hair
brown. She goes back the next day and says to the salesman, “I’d like to buy
this TV.” Again, he says, “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes.” She has no idea
how the salesman recognized her. So she leaves, gets a haircut, changes her
outfit, buys big sunglasses, and waits a few days before going back to approach
the salesman. “I’d like to buy this TV.” He says, “Sorry, we don’t sell to
blondes.” Incredibly frustrated she exclaims, “How do you know I’m blonde?”
“Because that’s a microwave,” he says.
This was often how phone conversations began with my dad, with
a new joke he had heard from one of his golfing or teaching buddies. You could
hear my mom chuckling in the background, since they had the phone on speaker so
we could all chat. We’d get into what was going on in our lives: with my sister,
Rachel, it was her daughter, Elizabeth, teaching, and her health. With my
sister, Angie, it was her daughter, Jenna, real estate, and her health. And
with me, it was my job, writing, and my health.
Unfortunately, Dad was more invested in the health of his
loved ones than he was his own. And no amount of discussion or argument could
change that. But Dad lived his life with little apology, little regrets, and
boundless love. He loved teaching for 35 years, especially when his students
told him 20 years later they still remembered that an image is TWO things. He
loved golfing or playing cards or having breakfast at Dick and Joan’s Corner
Lunch with friends. And he loved his family. I know because of the poems he
wrote my mother while he was in the Air Force and she was in the Navy. He went
to every sporting event, every show, every concert, and every performance we
were in, no matter how far. He insisted we call whenever we traveled, no matter
the time we arrived. And he ended all our visits and phone calls with two
simple words: “Love you!”
But while the sentiment seemingly came to him with ease, it
was more than just reflex. He could never hide his concern, nor did he care to.
When I was 11 or 12, I was running around a playground with some of my cousins,
and ran into a metal pole. The corner of my glasses cut into my forehead and I
fell down, completely dazed. A medic from a nearby game came to help. And when
he asked if my parents were in the area, I said my dad was going to freak when
he saw me. Sure enough, as my parents appeared at the other end of the field,
the medic said, “You were right. Your mom is walking a bit calmer than your
dad.”
He also wrote about love over the years in various stories,
essays, and poems. Earlier this week, my mom brought out an old briefcase of
his where he had stashed much of his writing. I came across this poem, which
seemed fitting. It’s called “Love Means.”
Love Means
Love means having faith in
Means having trust in
The one you love
You should know that
Love gives all today
And more tomorrow
It's self-perpetuating.
In our darker moments
Deep within our souls;
Love does not abandon
Instead
It helps us find our way
And
Love means you're no longer
An empty chasm
A hollow shell
You should know that
Love gives every moment
Gives every hour
A warm and wondrous meaning.
When you're feeling worthless
And life seems insecure;
Love steps in to tell us
Hang on - you will endure and grow
For
Love means new beginnings
Means new horizons
For brighter days
And you know that
Love gives every sunrise
Gives every sunset
A magic fascination.
When the day has ended
And words fade with the sun;
Feelings so deep and tender
Take hold - now we are one forever.
Love means having faith in
Means having trust in
The one you love
And you know that
Love gives all today
And more tomorrow
It's self-perpetuating - Love.
Besides his love of writing, and reading, there are so many
other shared memories of Dad. People often recall him racing to be the first person
in line for food at holidays, after trading witty comebacks with everyone there.
They joke about his Scrabble games with his sister, my Aunt Therese. They know
how much he loved the Cape, and taking family trips complete with mini golf, go
karts, and trampolines. They can picture him sitting in his recliner watching
all the Boston teams, throwing his arms up when they won and cursing their
existence when they lost. They laugh at how he could win money beating people
at the 100-yard dash, as long as they never challenged him to anything farther.
They requested the only song he would dance to at weddings with my mom, Elvis’
“Jailhouse Rock.” They remember his faith and his presence in church every
Sunday. And they share in his love of theatre, reminiscing about the years he
taught drama along with English at Hoosac Valley High School.
His all-time favorite play was Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. The play focuses on the
residents of Grover’s Corner, especially Emily, who we see fall in love with George.
They decide to marry, and nine years later Emily dies giving birth to their
second child. At the end of the funeral, Emily is given a chance to relive a
day of her life. Other townspeople who have died urge her not to go, but she
ignores their warnings and decides to relive her 12th birthday. But
as the memory plays out, it becomes too painful for her.
Emily: “I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t
have time to look at one another. I didn’t realize. So all this was going on
and we never noticed. Take me back - up the hill - to my grave. But first,
wait! One more look. Good-bye, good-bye world. Good-bye to Grover’s Corners…
Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking… and Mama’s sunflowers, and food and
coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and waking up. Oh
earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.”
But Dad saw it, felt it, realized it. He knew what was
important to him and he tended to those things with great care. And he would
want those he loved to do the same. To stop running and look up from our
screens to count the stars, and ponder the meaning behind their beauty. To hold
each other tightly, knowing it may be the last time we can do so. And to say
all that needs to be said, so that we too, can lead a life of no regrets.
Don’t worry, Dad. Everyone in this room will carry on the
morals and traditions you instilled in us. Please know your lessons in school,
your lessons in love, your lessons in life, will carry on in the minds and hearts
of everyone you touched. That’s why we all say, “love you.”
