So, this blog may seem depressing to read but to me it is necessary.
I am the youngest of 5 and I was told I was my dad's buddy. I would work outside with him, I would sit with him and watch TV and every night I would fall asleep in his arms. I remember none of that. Isn't it funny how negative influences cast the positive ones out to sea?
I am unsure when all that changed. I cannot pinpoint an exact time but I would say it was when I was around the age of 11. My dad was an avid smoker and when he was 50, he awoke one winter morning unable to catch his breath. He couldn't draw a breath no matter how hard he struggled. An ambulance ride later, he was in the ER getting operated on. Both his lungs had collapsed. They opened him up, scraped his lungs and took out a large chunk of them. He returned home numerous days later only to have them collapse again a week after his arrival home. More surgeries and scraping and he was home again. He quit smoking right then and there.
From that point on, I never remembered my dad 'well'. He was always ill. He took various medications, always had pneumonia or bronchitis and couldn't go out in extreme cold or heat. He withdrew and we grew apart. I went from being his little sidekick to being a stranger in his home.
The distance continued to grow to the point that we barely spoke to one another. He kept a tight hold on me and I wasn't allowed to do much of anything. I couldn't go to friends' homes, I couldn't have friends over and I was never allowed to use the phone. I couldn't watch any movies over PG and the TV was his domain. If he was up, it was his. No questions, no compromise.
However, I never saw him and my mother argue...never saw them fight. He rarely raised his voice and was soft spoken. He was very, VERY smart. We would watch Jeopardy and he rarely didn't know an answer. He read constantly and could read at an alarming speed. He would read dozens of books a week. He was a phenomenal author. He wrote a column for a nearby town's newspaper. He wrote short stories for a Kentucky magazine and a Florida school did a 6 week study on the book of short stories my dad published. He loved God and was obsessed with end of times prophecy. He was a great man, although I would never have said that back then. Back then, I despised him. However, back then I didn't understand the pain he was going through due to illness or the stress he was going through not having money to provide for his family. I get it now....
The summer of '92 things went from bad to worse. My dad wasn't feeling well at all and soon his stomach swelled to the size of a 6 month pregnant woman. Something wasn't right. In December of the same year, he went in to the doctor to discover the cause of the swelling was blockage. However, when they went in to rectify it, it was worse - much worse.
The doctor came in while my mom and my brothers waited for dad to get out of recovery and my mom knew the moment they stepped into the room that the news was as she feared. Cancer. The doctor proceeded to tell my mom the clinical information but she merely kept repeating the same sentence - "How long does he have." Finally after the third time insisting, the doctor gave us an answer we were not prepared for - 2 months, at most.
My dad came home and had given up. There was no fight left in him. He was bed-ridden and details as to his condition are not important. My mom didn't want to leave him alone, however with her working 3-11's and me in school...she didn't have a choice but to leave him alone for an hour until I got home.
Every day at school, as I watched the clock, I would wonder if I was going to go home to find my dad gone. Thankfully, that was not the case. I would get home and tend to his needs. Milkshakes were his favorite so I would make them whenever he asked for them. I would clean up after him. Unfortunately, while this should build a bond stronger with most, to me I despised him even more. Now, he only talked to me to ask me what I wanted of his when he was gone. He only spoke to me to tell me how worthless I was or how stupid I could be. He only made eye contact with me to make me well aware that I would never amount to anything. Yeah, I did what I had to then basically lived in my bedroom.
He did radiation and chemo. I had made the statement - it is good his hair isn't falling out. In return he replied - "That only happens when the medicine works."
My mom. Wow. She is pretty amazing. She was a nurse's aide by profession but to take care of her husband with such unconditional love was amazing. She loved him and he loved her. I have no doubt.
It was a Sunday, February 21st....a day shy of being 2 months from when he was diagnosed. We weren't a family that went to church on Sunday. However, I believe my dad was a Christian now that I look back on it. Yes, he was mean and bitter towards the end but he was sick and dying. That can make anyone mean and bitter, I think.
Anyway, mom and I ran to do some quick shopping. She would take me occasionally to give me a break from the Lysol smelling house (to this day, I cannot stand the smell of Lysol). We stopped by and bought dad a strawberry milkshake - his favorite. We got home around lunch and gave dad his shake but he didn't touch it. He hadn't eaten in weeks and so we pushed milkshakes and protein drinks but now those were left untouched. Mom reluctantly left for work.
My mom had given me a tiny black and white TV for my room and I can remember watching Wayne's World on TV and my little dog at the time (a yorkie named Barko) kept coming to my door and I would open it and he would run down the hallway to the living room where dad's bed was and look back at me. I would ignore him and shut the door. I turned the TV up because my dad was throwing up so much and violently that I tried to drown him out. My dog kept coming to my door, scratching and then run down the hall as if to say - follow me. I didn't. Instead, I scolded the dog and told him to get away.
My dad then started to yell for my mom. I went down the hallway and asked him what he wanted and he talked gibberish. He was making no distinct words, only sounds. I ignored it and went back to my room. He yelled again for my mom. Angrily I stomped down the hallway and asked what he wanted. Again, no coherent reply. A second time, I went back to my room, determined to just let him yell until he passed out. He started to yell for my mom over and over and then started to hit the wall with his fist. Finally, I was at my boiling point. I stormed down the hallway and went to the kitchen right on the edge of where the tile met the carpet. "WHAT?!" I yelled only to have him say something about the nurse and his medicine. "No, dad...you go to the doctor tomorrow. It's Sunday." I replied in a tone as if I were talking impatiently to a toddler. "I want Rita Faye." He said in a voice that made my heart drop. Something was not right.
I grabbed the phone and pulled it as far as the cord would allow into the hallway and called my mom. I told her he was scary me and wanted her. She said she would be right there. The next few moments I will never forget......
I went back to my bedroom, shut the door and turned the TV up a little more. Mom was coming. Everything was going to be okay. She would handle him, he would go to the doctor tomorrow and I would go to school. I heard mom come in and I snuggled down in my bed, watching the final few moments of my movie. I then heard my mom wail - a sound like no other I had ever heard. I bolted upright and stared at my closed door. I knew what was on the other side. I knew what to expect without even stepping past the threshold. I opened the door and ran down the hallway.
My mom was holding my dad's body, cradled in her arms. She demanded he let her change his shirt and take him to the hospital. In his sweet, soft tone he merely said - "No, no hospitals." Mom yelled at me to call my cousin who lived nearby but my mind went blank. I shook violently as my eyes fixed on the scene before me. She screamed at me and I snapped out of it, grabbed the phone and couldn't remember the number. Mom yelled the number and I called and told her it's bad. She told me she would be there and was calling the ambulance and my brothers. Mom yelled that my brothers needed to hurry.
I watched as my mom held my dad. She didn't shed much tears but firmly said, "You don't leave me, Bob. You hear me. Do not leave me. You can't leave me here alone." I was suddenly overcome with emotions that I had no idea how to handle. I felt as if I was rooted to the floor and my eyes unable to pull away. As my mom held my dad to her chest, she began to recite the Lord's Prayer over and over again. I took a few steps closer and she laid him back on his pillow....he rolled his head and lifted his eyes up to me and a smile lifted on the corners of his mouth. He then turned his head and looked at my mom - his wife of over 30 years. He then lifted his eyes to the picture of Jesus hanging above his bed and a wider smile danced on his lips as he took one huge inhale.....and was gone. The rest is a blur of emotions and heartache. I was 17 years old and my dad was 56 years old.
When loved ones pass away, I hear many people say how they wished they could have been there. My brothers arrived moments after the ambulance pulled away and they even said they wished they had been sooner.
No. You. Don't.
We sit around and remember dad, 18 years later and they have such good memories of when he was well and full of life. I remember him deteriorating into a shell of a man and him lying lifeless on the bed.
Is this a dramatic blog. Yes. Is it depressing. Sure. Did I make it through without crying? Not a chance.
But I miss him - a lot. I find it interesting that when I went back and proof-read what I had just typed and when I had gotten to the part of the event of the evening, I went from past tense verb usage to present tense. As if it was happening now and not then. I fixed it to past tense but it goes to prove the pain is still real. The wound is still open and the memory still fresh.
I miss the smell of coffee and Renegade (his chewing tobacco). I miss him standing on the porch and throwing the baseball back and forth with me. I miss hearing the typewriter clack clack clack in his small tiny office. I miss how when I belched at the table, he would get disgusted and throw his fork down and say "for the love of Pete" so I would do it just to irritate him. I miss how he said "dad-burn-it" when he got irritated. I miss how he would sit and talk for hours with my older brother and his wife. I miss how he loved egg sandwiches. I love how on Christmas, he acted like a kid again. And yes, I even miss watching him wring chickens necks and try to chase the flopping chicken around the yard.
He was smart, fearless (he would grab snakes and crack them like a whip to kill them), inquisitive ("Dad, there are these crazy looking birds in the woods!" "Well let's see what they are." *grabs gun* "BOOM!"), soft spoken, loved God and loved his family and friends, would help out anyone who asked (he had a blind friend that always wanted him to cut his hair and he grumbled the whole time before he showed up, then did it without a word of complaint)......
I don't have many pictures of him, but the ones I do have sometimes I find myself staring at them for quite some time, trying to absorb every detail. I listen to the tiny snippet of audio I have over and over again. And when I fear I have lost all memory of him, God sends him to me in a dream and it is as if he never left.
18 years later and the hurt is still there. There is still sorrow and there is still sadness in my heart. I wish I had listened to him more. I wish I held onto his wisdom and respected his authority. I wish he was here to have a relationship with my kids. He would have loved Cheyenne and her quirkiness. And Caleb and he would have been buddies, I am positive of that - they are a lot alike. I wish he was around to meet Matt. I know he and Matt would have gotten along quite well - both like to talk religion and theologies and both have the same soft spirit.
When people lose someone, I never tell them it gets easier. There are times it is easier....then there are times you just miss them and relive the sorrow all over again. As much as it pains me, it is not over. I will see him again. He will be whole and healthy and I will run into heaven and say "DAD! (not sure if I will call him that in heaven but for now, we will go with it).....I made it!" And he would smile and say "I knew you would."
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| Look at that handsome devil....my dad with my oldest brother and sister |
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| My dad and me....I think this is the only picture I have of me and him |
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| My dad and mom - I love, LOVE this picture |
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| My dad and my niece....Dad loved Christmas best of all |
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