For the two days after my birthday, I lost the love for emails, calls, texts, etc. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to hear any news. I wanted to be in my own little bubble with my door shut and ignore everyone else.
I got into work after making it through my birthday without any bad news. I could try and relax a little. My birthday was safe. More or less. My birthday will still always be a sad time. It will be the time that reminds me of my Dad lying in a hospital bed not moving. Not talking. Not really living. Some people may be able to disassociate their birthday from other bad things that may have happened on the same day. I actually know a guy who's birthday is September 11. But I'm not like that. When hubs and I got married, we made sure it wasn't on the same day as some big historical event. It didn't matter, hubs' father passed away two days after our 1st anniversary. I won't be able to forget that when I was "celebrating" my birthday, a big one too, my Dad wasn't there. And he will never be there again.
I closed my door to my office. Which normally means don't bother the individual inside. Not come and knock on the door and try to offer me support. I had emailed my boss, her pseudo-assistant, and the person who would be covering for me (Dam). I let them know that in the event of something happening before Wednesday I would not be in, but if nothing did happen I would be out Wednesday through the end of the week. I explained why. I did not want their pity or their tears. I was simply informing them of my upcoming lack of presence. So of course what does my boss do? Instead of emailing back with words of sympathy she comes into my office. With tears in her eyes. The whole reason I had to door shut was because I didn't want this. I didn't need to cry at work. I was trying to hold it together. And yes this may sound callous because my boss's father recently passed away, but too damn bad. I was hurting and I wanted to be hurting by myself.
I can't even remember what work I did in those two days. I do remember telling another coworker that I would be gone the rest of the week and she (understandably) thought I was going somewhere fun. Her and I are pretty close for her not working in the office so I explained that no, I wasn't going somewhere fun. She naturally felt horrible and then she told me something (that she reiterated in the card she sent) that I get a gift that not many people will have. I get to say goodbye. I get to spend his last moments with him, making sure he is comfortable, that he is loved. It may suck that he is dying but I get to say goodbye. Not many people do. I couldn't decide if I agreed with her. I still haven't decided. I can argue both sides.
Monday and Tuesday came and went. They were a big giant blur of sadness, waiting, and unbelievable hurt. By this point, I think I have told my friends in the area (Bethy, Jenn, Jenna). Their texts have begun to be interspersed with the ones from Mo and Jax. Comforting words of solace. Even if it's just a quick thinking about you, it's still nice to know.
Wednesday morning arrived. We (Mom, B, brother) had planned to meet at the hospital at 9. I get there and no one else is there. At first I am angry. My family is notorious for being late. Late to leave, late to arrive, late to eat, etc. It's a big giant peeve of mine and I am therefore always on time, if not early. Hubs shares this sentiment. I quickly realize that I would rather them not be there. I can spend more time with Dad.
I gently squeeze his hand and am rewarded with him opening his eyes. Instantly I have tears in mine. My Dad is awake. He is alive and will be coming home! My joy was short lived. I then have one of the saddest conversations I have ever had in my life, but one I wouldn't pass up. Ever.
It went along the lines of this:
Me: Hey Dad. How are you doing? (I know stupid question, but still)
Dad: Slowly blink.
Me: Yeah, I know you are pain. They got you on some great drugs though. Do you need more.
Dad: Slowly shakes head no.
Me: You know, I love you so much. And I know that you love me too.
Dad: Nods head yes.
Me: Everything will be ok. (Tears streaming down my face)
Dad: Shakes head no, tears slide down his face.
Me: Well, I know you aren't getting better, but everything will be ok. Mom will be fine. Jeremy will be fine. I'll be fine. (It's very hard to convince someone that you will be fine when you are crying, but I gave it a shot).
Dad: Blinks (more tears)
Me: I'll love you forever. You mean so much to me. Thank you for being my Dad. (more tears, hand squeezing, kiss on the forehead)
Dad: Nods. (Grimaces, meant to be a smile, but it's hard to smile with a tube down your throat)
I kiss him again on the forehead. He has closed his eyes. I know he didn't want to end our conversation but it took a lot out of him. I am crying when family finally shows up. I explain to Mom about my conversation and she instantly tries to get some reaction from Dad. I can understand her desire. But he is sleeping again. I feel guilty at my jubilation over this. It's not fair for Mom to not have a conversation with Dad, but it makes me feel special. I cannot help it. He is my Daddy and I want him only to myself.
Mom is of course stressed and trying to be strong. The DR comes in to let us know the plan. We inform him of our plan. We are the ones in charge. We are waiting until at least 11 so that my Uncle can get here. The DR agrees and leaves. So we sit. And we wait. Mom prepares the room. She brought a stereo so we can play music. She had me bring my laptop so I could download music if necessary. We are preparing like it's a party, not a death. No one really says anything. It's a very tension filled room. We try to joke about things, outside things, but it comes off flat.
Eventually my uncle arrives. The DR comes back and he explains what will happen. We will all leave the room and they will remove the tube. He will then be on an oxygen mask. (Side note, I'm not sure why they put him on an oxygen mask, to me it's just prolonging his suffering, but I'm not a doctor, obviously.) Then they will take away the mask and use nose thingies. (Again not really sure of the reasoning, but that's why I'm not making the big bucks.) We all seem to understand what is going on. Some more than others.
We leave the room and sit in the personal waiting room. This is the little side room next to the ICU waiting room. It's right next to the bathroom. You can hear everything. We are given a little entertainment. We all giggle and laugh. It is a brief moment of happiness in a sad day.
We are allowed back into the room. It is my understanding that he will eventually pass on his own, once we take away the oxygen. This is why I don't understand the mask and nose thingies. I want to scream at the DRs. Make them just leave him alone. To stop prolonging his pain. They have upped his morphine to incredible levels. That is all they are giving him. Tons and tons of morphine. Doesn't that show them that he is in pain? Am I the only smart one in the room? Apparently.
The day passes slowly. I can barely stand it. Brother can't. After we take out the nose things my brother mentions leaving. He can't stand to see it happen. He can't stand to see Dad like this. And I completely understand. But I hate him for leaving. I hate that I have to be the strong one. The one that stays and comforts my mother. It's not fair. I'm the youngest. That should give me some liberty to be the baby. But I'm not. I have probably been the strongest through this whole thing. Mom has her moments of strength but I know she is struggling. She is losing the man she loves. The man she planned to spend forever with. It's devastating. It's devastating to see her so sad. Brother says his goodbyes and leaves.
I watch him leave wistfully. Yet I remain. Solid. As Bethy told me, a freakin I-beam to the core. This is probably the best compliment I have every received. I am strong. I get that from my father.
Dad is nothing if not stubborn. After they took away all oxygen he still lasted a good while, breathing on his own. It was hard to watch. You sit there wanting him to pass so he can be free of pain but you also don't want him to go. You want to hold on forever. Because as soon as you let go, he's gone.
B and I convince Mom to stop talking to him. That he is holding on listening to her voice. She is making it harder for herself. I know Dad doesn't want to leave her. He doesn't want to leave any of us. But that's ok. We will be ok.
He eventually passes. At 6:14pm on September 1, 2010. He was 55. He had two children. A son-in-law. A loving wife. A brother and sister along with a brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Many nieces and nephews. A mother. He had many friends who loved him. And will miss him.
To this day (almost 4 months later) I still find myself getting angry. With the powers above. With my Dad. With my Mom. With some random person walking by. I get so angry that I cry. My emotions are a roller coaster and I have no control over them. I am exhausted. I'm sad. Then in brief moments, I am happy. Then I find myself feeling guilty that I'm happy. I know he would want me to be happy but it's hard to be happy without him. I miss him so much it hurts beyond words. There are days I go to call home to tell him something and stop before I dial. I had to change the name in my cell phone from Mom and Dad to Mom's house. It made me sad every time it popped up on my phone screen.
I still have a hard time when my mother calls my house phone. The caller id still reads my Dad's name. It is these little reminders that let me know he existed. That let me know he is still here. I don't know what I believe in. But I do know that he is watching out for me. He is watching me. Keeping tabs. Following my day to day activities.
He will be there for every birthday. For every holiday. For every heartache and every triumph. He will be in the room when I give birth to my first child, and every child after. He will help me when I need advice. He will be there when I curse him for not being there. He will be there in the dark and in the light. In the rain and in the sunshine. I know I will not see him again. But I also know that he will always be there. No matter what. Just like a Daddy should.
Me and Dad
The Hokie Pokie
The three of us
Father/Daughter Dance
I'm home sick with the flu, and now I'm bawling my eyes out. So poignant, so intense, and so, so, so, so, so very sad.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully done. I hope putting your thoughts into words helps you heal. Love you.