I kept thinking, "I wanted so much more for you, Daddy. Not like this....please, not like this."
My dad was only 45 years old. I was 26 years old, newly married. That first year of marriage, my husband had gone through a grueling chemotherapy. He finished in January, and in March my dad began his. It was the most horrific time of my life. I remember praying over tests results for both my husband and my dad. I remember thinking how heart-breaking it was to watch my dad and husband exchange chemo stories and share pointers on countering nausea. It was so bittersweet to watch them bond over chemo.
The year had been so polarized. We started off the year with my husband coming off his chemo. We would have to wait months to find out if it had been successful; to be out of the window for remission. During that year of injections and pills and lost hair, I had come to a new chapter in my life. I had aged. It wasn't a physical thing (although, there was definitely some physical consequences to the year's stress)-it was a soul thing. I could tell that my perspective on life had changed. I know it will sound cliche, but I felt like I could see the big picture for the first time.
I was young, naive, and a little selfish. It wasn't that I was a horrible person, but for example, I wasn't ready to really settle down and start a family. I liked being married and having real jobs (which equaled real money) and being able to travel and shop and all that good stuff. But that period was very short-lived. Suddenly, travel was just the trip to the doctor's office. Shopping consisted of mad dashes out for whatever food my husband thought he could eat (but never could...I was always too late). Life was suddenly limited; it was finite. And in that, it became so very, very precious. I measured each day. I cherished friends and family in ways I never had.
So that February morning, as my hubby and I made our first trip to church in a very long time, I stopped my husband in the parking lot and looked up into his eyes. It was a beautiful day and I remember feeling the sun shine on us and it was like God smiling down and telling me it was going to be alright; it was a new day. So, I smiled up at him and told him I was ready to have a family. He had been ready since the day we met, but I had held out. But now I was ready to take the plunge. As soon as we were cleared by the doctor to start trying, we would. It was a wonderful day. He picked me up and swung me around and I remember thinking that we had finally made it; life was going to get back to normal.
I was so very, very wrong. The next month (March 12th), my dad was diagnosed with an extremely rare and aggressive type of cancer (adrenal carcinoma). It had spread; it was everywhere. His chances of survival were slim. I remember getting the call from my mom to come to the hospital-that the test results were not good. I found her standing next to my dad's bed, holding onto the rails, crying uncontrollably. I had never seen her cry like that. I just held her and told her we would figure it out. I truly believed it would be alright. My dad was strong; he was invincible. He was a career army man for crying out loud! He made a career out of yelling at people LOL So this would not be the end of him.
The days were so long. It's crazy the things that stick with you. I remember dad kept dreaming about food. He hadn't eaten in weeks....but he would swear to you that he had just eaten a big plate of spaghetti. Other days, it was fried chicken. One day, when he was dreaming, he actually picked up his IV line and bit it in half while we were sleeping. He wanted to eat. He just couldn't. In his dreams, though, he was feasting every day on his favorite foods. I was always thankful to God for that. He had good dreams.
One day, he was laying in bed and suddenly his hands started moving. I watched and realized, in amazement, that my dad was tying on a lure to a fishing line. I had seen his hands move like that all my life on our fishing trips. He tied the line, put on a sinker, and cast out his line (off the end of the bed). Then, he started reeling it in slowly...I swear I could hear the spinner smacking in the water. I could see the sun on the water as he reeled that line up to the bed.
Another day, he was sitting up and suddenly, I heard him mumbling. As I got ready to say something to him, he said, "Draven, get back here!" Draven was one of the dogs at home. Sometimes when my dad would walk her, she would dash off and Dad would have to go get her. He would yell at her to come back, but she never did. Today, Dad yelled at her a couple more times and then let out a big sigh. I knew that he had given up on the yelling and was going after her. I laughed a little and thought to myself, "Poor Dad, even in his sleep he's having to walk the dog." His dreams were such a beautiful blessing; such a wonderful escape, for all of us.
April rolled around and the chemo had stopped working. There was another trial drug. In the end, it wouldn't work either. But he tried it. He gave it his all. It just wasn't meant to be.
Dad had aged so much. My dad was a young man. I remember at one of the last appointments, a nurse asking my mom how "her dad" was. My mom quietly corrected her, saying, "This is my husband." The nurse apologized profusely, but I remember my mom crying that night. It wasn't because of the age thing...it was the why behind all of it. She didn't care about selling the car that they had just purchased, but that now sat in the driveway collecting dust. She didn't care about the job she had left so that she could stay by his side day and night. She didn't care about all the other myriad of things that were happening. She cared that the reason that all of this was happening was because of the cancer. It was because we didn't need a car for dad anymore. What killed us was that little by little, dad was slipping away.
It was Mother's Day weekend and Dad had come back to the hospital. The new trial drug was not working. The doctor's solemnly walked in and told us that there were no other options. It was over. There was no fight left. All we needed to do now was decide what "our wishes" were. I remember my mom telling me how the doctor explained to dad that he could go home and they would make sure he was comfortable there. Dad looked at the doc and said, "No, I don't want to go home. Can't you send me somewhere else? Can I stay here?" She was shocked. "Honey, don't you want to come home?" my mom asked. He looked at her and explained that he didn't want to come home because he was worried that we would be afraid to live in the house if he died in it. He didn't want to taint our home.
I felt the lump in my throat turn to a rock. I thought I might choke. I felt the room spinning; felt the tears burning. C. S. Lewis was right when he said that grief feels like fear. It is that same overwhelming feeling; that same desperation, that same fight or flight instinct. You want to escape; to get away, but where do you run? How can you escape this?
I remember feeling such pity at that moment. I remember being humbled by his willingness to die in a strange place so that it wouldn't "haunt" us. We wanted him home. We wanted him with us. He finally agreed to come home.
I had gotten flowers delivered to my mom in the hospital for Mother's Day. As we gathered up all our belongings to head home, I got the vase of flowers. I remember feeling sorry for mom. My mom had literally been with my dad longer than she had been without him. They had gotten married when she was 16 and he was 18. She had literally grown up with him.
We went home. There was the home health agency bringing the bed, the long wait at the pharmacy for the meds, the scramble to get dad comfortable in his new "room" in the living room. Ever the planner, I made a list in my head of all the things I needed to figure out. Where did dad want to be buried? What funeral home? What was I supposed to do after he was gone? How would I ask him these things? How do you ask someone you love-no, someone you adore and look up to...your hero, how do you ask them how they want to die?
We thought we had a little more time, but we were wrong. The next day, things took a turn for the worst. It was a beautiful day, I remember. I remember thinking that you would never know that some one's world was falling apart on such a gorgeous day. Yet, here we were, sitting in the living room, watching dad fade away.
It seemed to go by so fast. First, he was sitting on the couch, having his last cigarette. He let it burn down so much that it got down to his fingers, but he didn't notice that it was burning him. We watched him like a hawk; all of us staring at him and watching every movement. He suddenly yelled, "Boo!" and we all just about fell over. "Why would you do that?!" my mom exclaimed. "Stop staring at me," Dad said, "It's creepy."
Then, he got up to try to go to the bathroom. Suddenly, he was falling. Mom and my brother caught him. My brother was yelling, "I've got you! I've got you." Mom was just screaming. I stood up and the next thing I knew I was throwing things down. I looked at my husband and yelled, "Do something!!!" I don't know what I expected him to do, but I just had to yell. It just came out.
We got Dad into bed and he regained consciousness. He looked around and said, "You know, I think I was gone there for a second." My heart was racing. I had this instinct to run; to get as far away from this as I could. But I knew I wouldn't. I knew I would stay there no matter what. We got dad comfortable and we sat by his side and we waited.
The moment was now. Dad's breathing was almost gone. He was cold. I knew it was coming. I knew it was happening. I kept thinking of all these things I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I loved him. I wanted to tell him that my life would never be the same without him. That I wouldn't be able to survive without my dad. That I still needed him SO much. I needed my dad to help me fix up my house, to show me how to have a beautiful garden, to change my oil and remind me to check my tires. I needed my dad to be there for my husband; to help him learn how to change spark plugs and get his guy time on the golf course. I needed him for my unborn children. Their future would never be complete without getting one of his hugs, without summer fishing trips and the embarrassment of his break dancing. I needed him.
I wanted to yell. I wanted to stand up and just tear at my hair and scream at the top of my lungs. I wanted to tear things off the wall. I wanted to break things. I wanted to break down. I wanted to die.
But I didn't. I didn't yell, I didn't break anything...I didn't break down. I simply sat there, held his hand, and told him it was ok; that I understood and I loved him no matter what.
I sat there, holding his hand, as that last breath escaped his lips. Until his chest went down and never came back up. I sat there while the world fell down around me; while my heart broke into a million pieces. I sat there.
I can't tell you how much it hurts. I can't tell you how much it kills me. It has never left me. It doesn't go away. No matter what anyone tells you, it never goes away. You just learn to live with it. It's like learning to live with a handicap. It doesn't get easier, you just learn how to do it. You will think that you have overcome; that you are finally in smooth sailing territory. And then, suddenly and out of nowhere, you will be right back in that moment. Suddenly, I am sitting right there with my dad, watching him die.
It has been nine years since I lost my dad. Nine years that I have missed his laugh. Nine years that I have dreamt about just one more hug; just one more chance to feel him envelope me like a teddy bear. Nine years that I have longed to hear his voice; to hear him call me "Sissy" one more time. With each year, it seems that I find new reasons to miss my dad. When we found out we were approved for our adoption, I needed to share it with him. When our son was born, I wept for us all. Every day, I feel sad for my son and the fact that he will never, ever know the man that loved just the idea of him so very much. Will never know the man that literally had him on his mind until the end.
No matter how old you get, you need your parents. I need my dad. I wanted so much more for him. I wanted him to get to grow old, retire, and spend his days fishing. I wanted him to get to know my son. I wanted him to get to see me as a mom. I wanted so much.
All this to say, I miss my dad. Always will.
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