Traveling through the
Berkshires on Amtrak, I’m on my way to see my sick father. Dad
has pancreatic cancer and is back in the hospital with severe
vomiting, dehydration, hyper-hydration, low blood pressure,
congestive heart failure, intestinal bleeding, high bilirubin, weight
loss... Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be in much pain. We may be
facing the beginning of the end.
I
feel awful: guilty and regretful, that my life circumstances have
not allowed me to be more involved in his day to day care; jealous of
the fact that I will not be allowed the opportunity to spend much
anticipated alone time with him; and terribly sad that he is getting
so sick so fast.
I’m
faced with this struggle of negative, childish feeling and supreme
sense of inadequacy that is so prevalent when I am with my family of
origin, and give myself the ritual pep talk. I have a role of my own
in this drama. I’m here to listen to and support Dad and my
sisters and brother. I am told that my daily letters are "the
high point in his days.”
I
seek Spirit guidance in staying in the light: stopping negative self
talk and projection, thinking before I speak, making the most of my
time with Dad. I would love to be able to make disappear the
competition and comparison and rivalry that has remained an
undercurrent in the relationship between the five of us siblings. I
remind myself that Dad admires me for who I am: for having overcome
great difficulty, and for having the initiative to do something
important with my life.
When
I do finally get my wish for the one-on-one time I have so craved,
I'm the good guy because he is being discharged from the hospital on
my "shift". Dad is visiting his apartment for a short
while now When people see how well he is doing, their jaws
drop because a week ago he was in such bad shape. He is one
pissed off boy, as is typical for someone in his position, but it is
very difficult being the brunt of his anger.
Once
Dad returns to his apartment, the days drag by ever so slowly. At
times I feel like I’m on vacation- when he is in good spirits and
not treating us like shit, he can be a real pleasure. But try to get
him to take his meds as directed, or to use his cane or walker as he
stumbles about, and I just want to walk out and leave him to his own
devices. I don’t know how my sisters have done it week after week
all summer. I’m grateful though that Dad fought (yes fought!) his
way back home. His first day back I am so happy to see him in his
chair that I almost start to cry.
Time
here is a reality check in letting go. I can remind Dad of the
things he needs to do, but if he falls or has an oil spill (i.e.,
leaks an oily substance into his pants as a result of not taking
medication with meals), the consequences of his inaction will be
clear enough. (Likewise, my teenage sons do what they’re going to
do in my extended absence.) The most I can do is make sure that I’m
doing the next right thing.
Dad's
home, but has gone down hill in a big way in just the last few days.
I was happy to have him at home at all, because I really didn't
think that I would ever be here with him again. I
greatly fear a downward spiral and feel so powerless.
*****
Shortly
after my return home following visit with Dad, a friend and I are
shopping at a large fabric store, and I have an episode whereby cloth
becomes brighter, tilting in a weird way… I wonder if I am having a
seizure, think: “Wow, feels like I’m on drugs, this is pretty
cool, what is going on, oohhh, I don’t feel so good.” I get
dizzy, break out into a cold sweat, and barely reaching the bench,
grab a bag of M&M’s on the way. Low blood sugar? What is
going on??? Later my sister calls to tell me of the episode that Dad
had, winding up on the bathroom floor, at the same time I almost
passed out.
Dad
is terribly sick, although Nancy has seen to it that he has remained
at home, as is his wish. I wind up having 45 minutes notice to make
flight reservations, arrangements for coverage in my classroom, pack,
and find a ride to the airport.
Once
there, I find there are moments that I need to distance myself from
my siblings and get the hell out of Dad’s apartment. He has an
apartment in a lovely retirement community, attached to which is an
assisted living and nursing facility. By chance I meet elderly
gentleman named Paul , as he is shuffling past Dad’s building,
binoculars in hand. We have never met before. In my upset I have to
force myself to acknowledge this man, before rushing on. But he looks
so frail, and I begin to wonder if he has wandered off unbeknownst to
his caregivers. So turning back, I ask if I may join him in his
walk. What a dear, dear man. We walk the same walk that I have taken
with Dad on numerous occasions. He reminds me through his
descriptions of birding adventures, and his wife’s authoritative
knowledge of wildflowers that I want to pursue these interests. I
share with him my reasons for stopping social work and not becoming
certified in education. As we return to the entrance of Dad’s
building an hour and a half later, I learn that his wife has died two
days previous, and tell him of Dad’s pending death. We share
tears and I feel in that moment that Spirit has brought us together
in our grief. He tells me how proud Dad is.
Upon
my return, I sit writing in the lobby of Dad's building. A neighbor
stops to find how things are going. This is the first time we have
met. We get into this amazing spiritual discussion about how Mom and
the others are joyously awaiting on the other side; Mom is
admonishing him to wait until something is finished; that he hangs on
waiting for something to happen; that something amazing always comes
of even the worst of events...
Thankfully,
Dad is comfortable after getting meds into him that he has been
refusing until this weekend. He is amazingly clear and in good
spirits most of the time, but continues to hang on waiting for who
knows what. Beth and Catherine are here, and have taken on most
of his care. I pretty much just sit quietly with him so when
he wakes up there is someone in the room with him.
The
minister has just left. While he praying for Dad, I open my eyes
and Dad looks at me wryly as if to say, “What is he talking about?”
Then, “That was a beautiful prayer, but I don’t understand
why he picked that one.” I comment to his pastor that Dad is
still in denial and he replies, “No he isn’t. He’s ready.”
So it occurs to me to ask a prayer in the way that I prayed when my
first born was a baby. I pray that Dad is welcomed with open arms
and celebration as he crosses over. That Mom and his mother and the
multitudes of people upon whom he has had such an impact, are lining
up to greet him. Please let him know that we will all be fine. I
thank him for setting such an amazing example. His generosity and
humor and wisdom will travel through future generations.
Early
this morning Dad's utterances are heard through the baby monitor in
the living room, “I’m afraid to let go.” God be with
you Dad. You can go and know that we will be with you always, that
your mark here is everlasting. “Oh dear, I don’t want to let
go”
Dad
has a tremendous sense of humor, and has taken great pleasure in
shocking people. One of his favorite pieces of advice over the years
has been, “Don’t forget your rubbers.” Even when there is no
one in the room with him, he is aware of the fact that we remain
vigilant through the use of a baby monitor. At one point he sighs,
“And he died with a smile on his face and his hand on his
pecker.”
I
feel so lost here, and focus my energy on just being. I fight my
sense of exclusion as my sisters and brother repeatedly put their
heads together. Between my lack of involvement in his physical care,
and projections of negativity (anger, judgment, resentment,
loneliness) I take myself a-wandering through the building. I stop
to visit with the woman from the lobby, so comforting had been our
previous visit. She gives to me an angel identical to the Hummel
that Mom had as I grew up.
Next, I am sitting out in front of the
building, where Dad and I had spent several gorgeous afternoons just
a week and a half before. While walking with the elderly gentleman a
few days ago, he mentioned that he was surprised by how few birds
there were, that he had not seen or heard any on his last couple of
walks. I have since noticed the truth of this. This morning
however, there are all kinds of birds in the trees, flitting about.
And there is a blue jay outside of Dad’s window that sounds for all
the world like it is calling his name, “Dick! Dick! Dick!”
-Mom?
We
think for sure that Dad is on his way. He is going deeper and
deeper, and at one point does not respond to my sister's
ministrations. Catherine is Dad’s Angel of Mercy, so very gentle
and loving as she keeps him medicated. Hospice is called and a
social worker comes and yanks poor Dad back. “Where’s the
eagle? Where did the bonny eagle go? … behind the black cloud…
Did we save your life little boy?” Catherine is so upset:
“Nobody goes in that room!” Later I am compelled to go
sit with him, against strong expression of disapproval on the part of
my sisters, their belief being that our presence is holding him back.
All I want is to go sit. I so do not want him to be alone, and in
fact at one point he says, “Well here I am, here I am by myself.
I’ll go by myself if that’s the way you feel.” They
refuse to acknowledge my assertions that we should be with him. I
sit against my sisters' wishes, for about an hour and a half, and
just before I leave the room I whisper, “Let go Dad. It’s time.
They’re waiting and we are going to be fine. It’s ok Dad, just
let go.” After I leave the room, he does stop breathing for longer
that the usual 50 or 60 seconds, and Beth goes in. After several
minutes, he awakens again and is so amazed. He keeps saying over and
over, “I’m awake! I’m awake! I was asleep and now I’m
awake. God told me that I’m awake. I was asleep.”
The
day after he asks about the bonny eagle, Nancy shows us an article in
the paper about a horrible accident in which 3 teens, students at
Bonny Eagle High School have been killed.
For
the rest of the day, he is clearly between here and There. When
Pastor comes, he wakes Dad in the first loud voice since his previous
rude awakening. “Dick, I’ve come to say good bye.” “Where
are you going?” “Nowhere, you’re the one who’s leaving.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve already been there and back.” After
prayers, I don’t think Dad speaks directly to us again. He speaks
of and to people all around the room when there is never more than
one or two of us in the room at a time. He repeatedly admonishes,
“Nothing mentioned, nothing gained.”
I
go to sit with him, holding my book in my lap, staring at the words,
when Dad’s breathing becomes more rapid with almost a moan. When I
look up there are tears in his eyes. Nancy comes and asks to sit,
and I point out that Dad is crying. “Oh my God, he is.” I
think, “That’s why he doesn’t want to let go: he loves us, and
life too much to leave.” A while later, I read to him in his
unconsciousness, from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, on life,
love, marriage, children, death. Catherine medicates him; we turn
out the lights, and are watching Notting Hill when he dies at
10PM Thursday September 23, 2004. Nancy goes in to check on him and
her keening announces his death. Later, Catherine mentions that the
sound reminds her of a bird that she isn’t able to identify.
Nancy’s reply: “A nightingale pierced by a thorn.”
I
have asked Dad to try to “make contact” with me.
As
I shop for something to wear to the service, I come across this great
red felt hat that actually fits!! I am compelled to wear it
for his memorial despite such impropriety in the face of death. After
the initial head shaking, the realization that Dad would have loved
this brings laughter to his friends.
As
we travel to Winchester, the town that is to be his final resting
place, the urn holding Dad's ashes rests in my lap. As George
Winston's piano rendition of Pachabel's Cannon plays through the car,
I am swept back to our walk across the lawn for my marriage. How
fitting that the music that signifies him giving me away, plays as I
prepare to give him away.
And
later, as I wander in search of “something” to give my siblings
in remembrance of this huge event in our lives, asking Dad’s
guidance, I come across a children’s book called "You're
All My Favorite.”
Saturday,
October 9, 2004, 4:15AM
“Try
to make contact…”
Dad
looked at me with wonder when I said that to him a day or two before
he died- like yeah, right. Or, maybe I will…
As
has been usual since Dad’s passing, I awaken hours early and lay
tossing about, falling back into that delicious visionary sleep that
occurs early in the morning. Having overslept then, I start
instantly awake as Coconut by Harry Nilsson plays on the radio, the
subject of music trivia. That had been a particular favorite of
Dad’s in the seventies- he even bought the 45. I had sent him a
card that made reference to it earlier in the summer. I have
repeatedly searched on line for that song since I found that card. I
haven't heard that song in 25 years! It's him.
This
morning I again awaken, mind a-race with things that I want to make
priorities and goals, and things that Dad would do differently to
make my business more financially viable.
How
perfect.
“Try
to make contact…”
I
inherited my love for clocks from Dad. One of my fondest memories is
of the time he was visiting and on the way to pick up some groceries
he slammed on the brakes as I pointed out an old clock in a yard
sale. The clock was broken, so as was his custom, he had it repaired
and it has since been on our mantle. On a shelf in the next room
there is another clock that he has left to me. Since his death, the
clock on the mantle has developed a quirk that can be rather
annoying. It will strike and continue either until someone turns it
off or the clock winds down. So we keep the chimes on that clock
turned off.
One night I am awakened by the endless chiming of that
clock. I'm too lazy to get up to turn it off, so it continues it's
music for twenty minutes or so before stopping of its own accord.
Immediately Dad's brass clock chimes in for another twenty minutes,
followed by repeat sessions by both clocks. As the clock on the
mantle begins again, I come down stairs and the chimes cease. Dad
just wants some company.
*****
My
sister e-mails me with a journal entry regarding our growing up and
lack of nurturance from our mother as little children. I call her
after a futile attempt to gather my thoughts on paper, sharing with
her how i go about filling that inner longing for something that is
so elusive. I tell her about my toy drawer and my snuggly elephant
and how it feels when I hold it close to my heart. I tell her about
how I try to give to other kids what I feel they are not getting, and
how doing that, having that outlet, fills me; how i believe we need
to circulate the loving energy in the universe and that as long as we
are vigilent in doing that on a daily basis, what we feel we lost out
on as a child is somehow compensated for because we are giving it to
someone else who may not have it otherwise, and that is so healing.
Immediately
following this conversation I came downstairs and the back yoard is
filled with birds: nuthatches, chickadees, woodpeckers, cardinals,
tufted titmice. Ben and i are so enthralled. As I re-dial my
sister to tell her of this event, I am filled with peace. When I
come down, the birds are gone.
