It Is What It Is: Struggling Through My Father’s Affliction
by Rob Cottignies
FOREWORD (written before 2016)
What follows, overall, is not happy. It is a series of raw
emotions that should not be a pleasure to read. However, I feel the story must be told accurately, with no
sugar-coating.
Upon reviewing this, I found a good deal of the writing to
be petty complaining. Whining, almost. But everything reflects what I was going
through at the time and perhaps some of what I am still trying to deal with. I
have done very little editing to ensure the narrative unfolds as it happened.
Writing these memoirs gave me much relief during what I hope
will be the hardest situation I will ever experience. My intent was to give a
bit more clarity on the events as his condition progressed from bad to worse.
I truly hope you are able to take something positive away
from it.
This journal-like “essay” was written between the beginning
of Summer 2007 until late Winter 2008. It has since been edited for wording and
pacing but not content. The chronology is how it was written and the thoughts
were mine at the time.
-----------------------------------------------------
What do you wear when looking at nursing homes for your
father?
I am 25 years old and had to think about that.
A week before moving into my first apartment, I should have
been thrilled. Instead, I was following an ambulance to an emergency room.
While I should have been enjoying that apartment, I was answering phone calls
from my dad's friends who had not heard from him in months. They were wondering
what was up with him. So was I. At a time when I should have been preparing my
assets for the future, I had to do just that for him.
Am I whining about this? No. Am I looking for pity? Maybe, a
little. Am I resentful? Absolutely.
About three years ago at the time of this writing, my father
noticed something off about his golf swing, specifically with his left hand. A
little while later, he began repeating questions. Simple things, like how my
day was. He could no longer remember what I was doing for the coming weekend. I
was concerned; he shrugged it off.
Along with short-term memory, his speech was diminishing.
Everybody stutters at times but he could barely get a full sentence out.
Again, I was concerned. Again, he shrugged it off.
As the problems worsened, more people began to notice. His
hand would shake uncontrollably when he tried to grab something or sometimes
for no reason at all. His gait, his steps, became short and quick, like he was
always in a rush. His voice went from a deep boom to a cowardly whimper. He
sounded scared. He should have been.
Stubborn as he is, he continued ignoring suggestions. People
who cared about him, trying to help, being shunned aside. I signed him up for a
trial Yoga class and gave him the pamphlet. I said the class would help his
mobility and mindset, and that I would go with him. An hour later, the pamphlet
was in the garbage. He did not even bury it, as if proving to me he had given
up.
"Go see a neurologist." "Go see a
therapist." "Go see someone, anyone." "For your sake and mine,
get out of the fucking house."
"Oh, I'll think about it." He probably did, for a
matter of seconds.
He would not see anyone- a doctor, the mailman, a
life-long friend. He shut himself out from the world, which is what I believe
shut him down. Going to a restaurant would mean strangers might give him funny looks
if he dropped a fork. His new hobby was canceling on friends who wanted to come
over for a chat. He would agree in the morning then work himself up to the
point of a near-breakdown so he could tell them not to come. People who had
known him since childhood- who would never mock or judge- wanted to understand
the situation. They wanted to help. I wanted to help. But helping someone who
has given up is difficult.
By this time, it had been determined that my dad had a
Parkinsonism called Cortical Basal Ganglionic Degeneration, which is basically Parkinson’s
with some added symptoms, such as memory loss.
This sent him into an understandable depression. Trying to
cope with bad news is not easy, however in some situations, the time for “woe
is me” is very short. If you want to get better, you must do things yourself
and ask others for help along the way, not just depend solely on them.
Of course, that is if
you want to get better.
Did he? I think so, but through no effort of his own.
Sure, he was no longer able to play golf or cook himself
dinner but watching golf on television and heating frozen meals were easy
enough.
He just sat back like the prince he wanted to be and got
waited on- by me. Only me. I went from pitching in my share to doing everything
except paying the bills, which I eventually also did. I was cleaning the house,
food shopping, cooking. Menial tasks, I know. But I am not a caregiver nor was
I prepared for this.
I was babysitting my own father.
…
One morning, I woke up at 5:30 because he had fallen after a few short, rushed
steps. His legs were giving out.
I ran upstairs to find him naked on the floor with a bloody
knee. Rug burn.
I propped him up, put some shorts on him, and applied
peroxide to his boo-boo. I told him it was going to sting and realized we had
reversed roles from the days when I would fall off my bike.
…
“Every day, I can't wait for dinner to be done with. Then I
can just relax. But at night I lay in bed, dreading the next day. When I wake
up, I say 'Oh shit, another day. What's gonna happen?’”
I must have heard that in some form hundreds of times. He
was cursing a lot more than he used to. So was I.
The depression became my biggest issue with him. Our house
had never exactly been a haven of happiness but it was content most of the
time. At this point, I could feel the sulky attitude as soon as I opened the
front door. The same way he dreaded the next day, I dreaded coming home.
"What will happen this time?" I would ask myself, half mocking him
and half wondering.
After working a full day then cooking or bringing dinner
home, I wanted to relax. I would chat with my dad about sports, weather,
etc., but he would always boomerang everything back to how horrible he felt.
I got sick of it really fast.
I told him his attitude was draining me, on top of
everything else. He thought only people with problems see therapists, so that
was out of the question. By this time, I was thinking about going to see one.
Someone had to.
(One of my biggest regrets is not talking to someone
during this time.)
…
The Saturday before I sent him to the hospital, I stayed
home the entire day because he was unable or unwilling to move. To this day, I
am still not sure which.
I made breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This was, of course,
after being awakened early by a falling spree.
I used to sleep late on the weekends. I used to sleep,
period.
At 6:00,
I went downstairs to my room for an attempt at peace of mind.
Without exaggeration, he called me upstairs nine times
within 45 minutes. He needed help getting to the bathroom, he wanted more
water, whatever the reason. One time was to ask if I could make sure his bed
was made. You know, so it would not look sloppy in front of all the visitors he
had over.
I hated screaming at him but sometimes it had to happen. He
left me alone after that.
I stayed home that night because I had a feeling I would be
getting up bright and early.
Unfortunately, I was right.
…
A little before 5am, I heard, "Rob! Rob! Rob, are you there!?"
He was the one laying in bed, unable to move, and I had never felt so helpless.
I must admit to thinking about leaving him there until I was
ready to get up. 'Good,' I thought. 'This is what you get for ignoring
everyone.'
After a few more thoughts and shouts, I went upstairs.
He was sideways on his bed, covered with urine. The
situation had grown beyond my ability to help, so I called 911. I did not know
exactly what to tell them, but I knew we needed their aid. An ambulance came
and took him away.
Nine hours later, I came home from the hospital.
I was alone in the house for the first time in over a year.
In a dementedly bittersweet way, it was nice. The next morning, I woke up to
silence. No thuds, no shouts- nothing. Once more, it was rather nice.
And then it all sank in.
…
By the time I got to the hospital that next day, it had been
determined my father stopped taking his medication about six weeks prior. The
medication that helped control the tremors. The medication that made him able
and sometimes even willing to function. The medication that let me sleep late
on days off.
I never asked why he stopped taking it. Whatever the answer,
it would have been ridiculous and I would have just grown angrier.
Anger- the one consistent emotion I have had throughout this
entire ordeal.
Because of his stubbornness and selfishness, I had to grow
up fast. I am handling things most people twice my age do not have to deal
with. There are the politics of the whole situation, legal issues, assets, and
whatever else I cannot think of.
And now, similarly to home, I have no idea what to expect
when I visit him.
Occasionally, he can have a five-minute conversation without
soiling his diaper. But most of the time he ends up making a gun with his hand
and pointing it at his head. Nice to see you, too.
For obvious reasons, my visits have gotten shorter and
shorter.
…
One of the more annoying parts of this situation is the
constant questioning.
When I go home to get the mail, the neighbors flock around
me. I get at least a few calls per week from my dad's friends, asking for an
update. Granted, I am in charge of everything going on and I do appreciate their
concern, but I wish they would back off. When I go to the house, grab the mail,
and run inside, that means you should not ring the doorbell.
The repetition wears me out. But maybe it also keeps things
fresh.
I have never liked our neighbor Jay. He is a grumpy old man
and for some reason never sat well with me. I have usually been pretty good at avoiding
him but things are different now. His pattern has been to come over, ask a
brief question about my dad, then tell me how poorly he feels or how his friend
who had a heart attack recently is doing. Call me heartless, but I do not care.
I have enough on my plate. Spare me the side dishes of everyone else’s
problems, especially people I barely or do not even know.
One time, Jay came by and said something I will never
forget.
We were talking about how quickly this affliction has taken
my dad down, when he said- and I quote- "I keep telling my wife that she should place bets on who's gonna go first- me or your father."
Every once in a rare while, you hear something that leaves
you speechless.
I could not decide if I was going to let rage or confusion
take over. Sure, he probably meant no harm by it, but like I have said
many times, I do not care. He said it. While I am going through one of the
toughest situations I can imagine, he pulled that out.
I have not spoken to him since and hope he knows why.
…
The really difficult underlying part of all this is the fact
that my father and I never had a wonderful relationship. He was always there
for me and never hit me or anything. It was just a very vacant, quiet, sad
house we lived in.
Many movies show how a character discovers hidden, interesting
things about a loved one during or after a tragedy. I guess I am still waiting
for that.
My uncle has been helping, which is nice. Not in the
actually-visiting-his-only-brother-in-the-hospital way, but checking in on me
and doing favors.
Sadly, I have been warned by many people that he is terrible
with money. As of now, his name is second on the power-of-attorney sheets,
under mine. That will change but for now I would rather stay out of a sibling
rivalry. If he finds out, he will probably sever ties with my father and me. I
would not be entirely crushed because at some point I am expecting him to ask
for money, since I control my dad's assets.
He broke communication with my aunt's family over money, so
why would this be different?
…
My father is moving into a nursing home tomorrow morning.
I went there today to sign papers that basically throw his
life into their hands. His assets are going to run dry unless I can figure something
out. Honestly, I am so fed up at this point that I do not really care. Take it.
What bothers me about it is everything he has saved or
invested through the years is going to this. Everything. His house, car, bank
accounts, stocks. My inheritance.
Maybe I should not say this but his condition is not
improving and things would be a lot simpler if he just died.
I hate myself for saying that but I love myself for being
realistic.
…
My father has always been a complicated man, which is
strange since he led such a simple, effortless life. He enjoyed the industry he
worked in, but wished he took a different path. He played golf and had all his
favorite TV shows memorized.
He talked me out of going to the college of my choice. I think
he was afraid of being alone. It was four hours away. The one I went to- twenty
minutes. Granted it was my decision and ultimately was a good one, but his selfish pleading certainly swayed me.
When we would meet every few weeks for dinner, we would do
our usual fishing for conversation. Our interests varied greatly, mostly because
I had some. He was polite but was also the type of person to complain when a
store would not let him use an expired coupon. Very stubborn, as we already know. Some people have used the word 'proud' instead of 'stubborn’.
I have not.
He once took me to a seafood restaurant, fully aware that I
dislike seafood. I drowned some kind of fish in lemon juice and ate maybe a
quarter of it. That bothered him.
He went through my journal one summer because he thought I
was depressed. Some psychologists might call that ‘Projection’.
I think about these things while paying his bills. Whenever
a friend of his calls, I always want to ask, 'Did my dad ever show signs of
life?' He talked about dating but never did. (As far as I know.) The same way
he sat back waiting for someone to come to the door with the Parkinson's miracle
cure, he expected a woman to show up with a set of golf clubs and say, 'I do
not want kids.’
I always wondered what exactly he was saving his money for. He
saved or invested a great deal, but I never could figure out what it was going
toward.
I still do not know his reasons, but I do know what the
answer has become.
…
We made the move to my dad’s new "home" today. It
will never be that, I know.
He forgot about the move but claimed to remember when I
mentioned it.
The nurses where he was said they would miss him. The ones I
met were all excellent, one in particular. I know it is her job but she was
definitely an “above-and-beyond” type of person.
While they were preparing my dad to leave, he lost it. Just
started sobbing, genuinely. Then the nurses began crying. I left the room and
shot toward the end of the hallway. He never taught me this but I have always
felt it better for me not to cry. And if it does happen, no one should see it.
The EMT who moved him was very standard- saying the right
things, going about his job, etc. When he left, my dad and I were alone in his
new room with a man on the verge of something very bad. He sat in a wheelchair,
drifting in and out of consciousness, clearing his throat loudly every few
minutes.
When dealing with a crummy situation, people always say
'Hey, things could be worse.' That normally does not help, but when you witness
exactly how, feeling a little better is unpreventable.
If your neighbor's house gets destroyed by a fire but yours
is fine, you are allowed one sigh of relief.
My dad complained his pants were too tight, so I changed
them. The new ones were too rough. I said, “Too bad”. Whenever I start feeling
like a babysitter instead of a son, I clam up and snap back.
…
It has come to the point that I might "have to" move back into the house. I can do nothing with it for at least another nine
months and instead of going there once a week for the mail and trying to keep
the house stable through the winter, signs point to me moving back in.
I feel defeated. I tried so hard for so long to get out of
there and finally did, only to go back a few months later. Granted it will be
different since my dad will not be there, so I can basically do as I please
with the place. But this is not what I want. I really did not think his illness
could affect me more than it already has. Much like when I gave him that Yoga
pamphlet thinking he would make an effort to get better, I was wrong.
Am I resentful? Absolutely- now more than ever.
The fact that he did NOTHING to better himself or the
situation makes me ill. Had he tried his best but was overcome by the disease,
I would be less hesitant and far less harsh about it. But no, he just gave up.
I now see the huge difference between pride and idiotic stubbornness.
He does not want people to see him in his condition.
Embarrassment- that has to do with pride. Being told he has an affliction that
is not curable but he can still live his life fully with some slight
adjustments and doing nothing about it is idiotic stubbornness. Letting an
illness consume him and depending on his son for everything is selfishness in
its purest form.
And how is he doing? Not well. He is not going to get
better. He does not want to get better. He can barely move a muscle without
some assistance. His mind is mush. He is no longer my father. Our roles have
reversed.
I tell him things, but nothing serious. Even if it he is not
utterly confused, he will forget within minutes. He has no idea what is going
on with me, the house, or even himself most of the time. He is merely a shell
of the person he was not too long ago.
There are those who say that some good comes out of every
situation. If you meet one of those precious optimists, tell them to call me.
…
I cannot do this anymore. Well, I have to and will, so I
guess quitting is not really an option, but you know what I mean.
I went for my dad’s quarterly review this morning and had a your
child is doing fine at summer camp feeling. The meeting went well and
things seem to be in order but whenever someone from the events department
talks to me about getting him involved with activities and making friends, I
feel empty.
The whole damn thing makes me feel so helpless, like I have
not done enough and can never do so. People say I have done my best and I know that
is true, but the hopelessness of the situation makes me feel like everything I
do is pointless.
And, of course, there is the fact that he did nothing while
he was able to help himself, so why should I put forth effort in the first
place?
I sound like such a jerk sometimes.
I have also decided to move back into the house. It will
never be what I want but there are many factors.
Getting rid of his things will be challenging mentally. I have
tried to explain this to some people but could never find the right words. Throwing
away his possessions, even menial things like work papers, gives me the sense
that I am giving up too, like saying, ‘He will never use this again because he
is not going to get better’.
I understand the disease and circumstances but would rather
not give up the iota of hope that one day the health center will call me to say
he is doing cartwheels down the hallway and is fully able to return home.
However, he gave in to the disease, and it looks like part
of me has to as well.
…
Things are somewhat 'together' at this point, but it all
leaves me with a difficult and unanswerable question: How long?
Probably the most heartbreaking thing about my dad's
situation is his age- just turned 53. Is this going to be it for the next 20, 30, 40 years? My father,
wearing a diaper and restraints so he does not fall out of bed. My father,
unable to retain any recent happenings.
Will there come a day when he no longer recognizes me?
I also dread the feeling of abandonment when the day comes
that I leave my home area. I know moving on with my life is important but there
is no way he would fully grasp what was happening.
I would call but he would never answer the phone. I would
send letters but he would probably get frustrated from not being able to read
them. And when would I visit? Say I move across the country, what then?
But what is the alternative?
…
I keep recalling the point when I pretty much gave up on
him.
We were still living at the house. I came home and asked how
he was feeling. Repeating actions from the previous however many days, he made
his hand into a gun and put it to his head.
Try to comprehend that if you can. My father, supposed guide
and role model, saying "I wish I was dead" in Sign Language.
Normally I told him to stop or said a sarcastic ‘Great’ and
walked away but this time I just stared at him. Looking intensely into my
father's eyes, realizing he wished the hand next to his head was an actual gun,
I could only think 'Do it. If you have truly given up, despite my and everyone
else's efforts, make both of our lives easier.'
What if he asked me to get him a real gun? What if he asked
me to pull the trigger?
These are the thoughts running around in my head. No wonder
I cannot remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep.
…
My visits with him keep getting shorter.
I always mention things that are going on with me, ask if he
wants or needs anything, and tell him certain people send their regards, even
if I have not spoken to them. But lately he seems to grow very bored or
frustrated and says he wants to sleep. I have no reason to doubt him since I
cannot imagine being awake is thrilling, but part of me feels that he holds
resentment toward me. About what, I have no idea.
I have been thinking about that a lot recently and every
time come back to the conclusion that if anything, I should be entirely
resentful toward him. He has no idea how much I have altered my life because of
him, even before his illness.
I keep remembering a conversation I had with him, maybe a
few days before calling the ambulance.
I told him how disappointed I was with how he had done
nothing to even try to get better. His reply was something along the lines of
'There is no cure, so I can't get better.'
He had to know that was bogus. And I was fed
up, so I let it all out.
I told him that although there is no cure, he could be doing
much better than he was if only he had tried. I asked why he ignored
everyone's suggestions and got no answer. And then I told him if he wanted to
give up on life, fine, but to think of me for a second, and how much my life
had already changed and would continue to do so because of his giving up.
But he continued doing nothing and here we are.
I took this very, very personally. I told my father that a
large part of my life would become absolute Hell because of him and he did not
care.
As an only child, I have many selfish tendencies, but I
think his actions- or lack thereof- have completely redefined that idea. To sit
there and have your son tell you part of his life has become utterly miserable
because of your pride or whatever it may have been and continue to do nothing about
it is simply inexcusable.
I have not and at this point would never let any of this out
on him. But if you want to talk about resentment, I think I have just redefined
something myself.
…
The past holidays have each been their own little nightmare.
His birthday was in October and he was not doing horribly at
that point. During my visits before the day, I told him I was going to bring in
a nice meal and that the rest of the family would be there. He smiled every
time I mentioned it, because to him, each time was his first hearing about it.
The day finally came and so did my only complaint with the
nursing home. After waiting in the room he was supposed to be in for some
twenty minutes, I went to his room to find him being fed dinner. Of course, he
had no idea about the birthday dinner (I doubt he even knew it was his
birthday), but nobody told the staff about it. Like I said, this is my only
dissatisfaction with the home, and at this point is worth mentioning simply as
an add-in.
My uncle, grandfather, and two cousins came to celebrate
with us. My dad seemed delighted when we sang Happy Birthday but quickly began
to panic. After many attempts at coaxing him through it, I wheeled him back to
his room. He always said he hated the bed, the room, and being at the home, yet
when he was moved from any of those, anxiety would take over.
After an uncomfortable but peaceful dinner without him,
everyone went back to my dad’s room, where he was surprised to see all of us.
As with any mental disease, it is always harder on the victim’s family since
the person has little or no idea about the situation.
…
I picked up some food on the way to visit him for Thanksgiving.
He refused to eat, smell, or even look at it. I was thankful that I chose not
to put a bunch of effort into cooking a meal.
I wondered what, at this point, he was thankful for.
I turned on a football game and as I was trying to eat, he
kept calling me over. The bed was too high, too low, not straight enough, not
upright enough. Each time I would adjust it and swallow no more than two bites
before he changed his mind. I finished my meal and said I was going to stay and
watch the game with him. He seemed to like the idea but still could not get
comfortable.
(Part of me hoped he was just messing with me.)
He was tired, so I told him to catch a nap and we would hang
out when he woke up. The time it took me for another bite of food was how long
he tried to fall asleep. I could tell he was very nervous. I continued to help
in any way that I could until I realized my being there was causing this
anxiety.
I left and, presumably, he fell asleep, which I guess was
what we both needed.
…
My visits up to Christmas were usually short. He barely even
smiled when I showed up. My dad was very uneasy and talking to him was pointless.
But Christmas is about family, so I brought my grandfather along to see him. He
got my dad a card and I bought him a nice blanket.
He really seemed to not care, not just about the gifts, but
that we were even there. Holidays used to bring him such joy.
As we left, my grandfather called it a ‘lovely visit’. I
disagreed fully but was not about to spoil his good memory.
I just wish there was some way of knowing that would be
their last encounter.
…
In Loving Memory Of Robert Cottignies, Sr.
January
28, 2008
Fill not your hearts with pain and sorrow
but remember me in every tomorrow
Remember the joy, the laughter, the smiles
I’ve only gone to rest for a little while
Although my leaving causes pain and grief
my going has eased my hurt and given me relief
Dry your eyes and remember me
not as I am now, but as I used to be
Because I will remember you all
and look on with a smile
Understand, in your hearts
I’ve only gone to rest a little while
As long as I have the love of each of you
I can live my life in the hearts of all of you
…
It has been almost two weeks since he died and it always
feels like yesterday.
I have been flooded with what I believe is every emotion
known to humans. Sadness, relief, anger, confusion, and in some strange way,
hope.
To be selfish for a minute, I am free now, in many ways.
Though I still firmly believe his lack of action had an enormous part in the
way things turned out, I am not mad at him anymore. Through this whole ordeal,
I have been saving myself with the mantra "It is what it is". And if
I really want to follow that, I must do it across the board.
At this point, I can pretty much do what I want, after all
the paperwork, of course. I can continue with my life, which I feel has been on
hold for the past however long. I can move. I can get a job that actually makes
me happy. I can experience things that were only a daydream before. I can do
what I truly believe my dad would want me to do- live life.
I do feel a sense of guilt, as much as people tell me I
should not and as much as I know they are right. Could I have done more? I
thought I was being a pain by trying to push him on certain things, so I backed
off. Had I insisted, where would things be now?
As I have said, I know I did as much as possible in the
situation, but that feeling still lingers. And ultimately it comes back to his
various decisions to not help himself.
Maybe I am still a little mad about that, but would you
blame me?
Although the future looks somewhat bright, there are times I
know will be rough. Father's Day. His birthday. The late-year holidays, which
may not have always been enjoyable but at least were spent together. And the
eventual one-year anniversary of his passing, thus starting a new cycle.
Seeing my friends with both of their parents has always been
somewhat uncomfortable for me, but now seeing them specifically with their
fathers might choke me up a bit more. It will be sad going to the park and
watching people in their seventies jog around the same paths my father used to
take. And, possibly most disturbing, the fact that both of my grandfathers are
still alive and doing rather well. Not that they should not be, but comparatively speaking, it is not how things are “supposed” to be.
From here, I am not sure what to do or where to go.
I do not know what happens to a person after death but I would
not be surprised if he is somehow making sure I am on the right path, like
always.
My father was a good person who was nothing if he was not
making sure his loved ones were all right. Though we rarely saw eye to eye, I
know deep down he always had my best interests in mind.
What is done is done. It is what it is. And now I can move
forward, knowing he will be checking in once in a while.
My father and I are both free, and possibly for the first
time ever, in total agreement.
…
I was going to end there, however I cannot shake those
horrible few days when and after he died. Telling that part of the story might
help clarify things for somebody- maybe myself, maybe whoever reads this, maybe
both.
It was a Sunday morning when I got a phone call from my
uncle saying my dad's breathing was erratic. I called the nursing home and they
recommended not moving him to the hospital but wanted my input. To me, if the
professionals did not think it was that serious, why should I? The nurse said
they would keep an eye on him and I told myself to visit the next day.
A few hours later at a friend's apartment (actually, the one
I recently moved out of), I received another call from the home, saying
basically the same thing, and asking what I wanted to do.
The woman said something like ‘We can move him to the
hospital or do everything we can to make him comfortable here’. I demanded to
know if there was something hiding behind her statement, to which she said very
little, but I understood. She thought it might be my father's last night alive.
After arriving at the emergency room, I found out he had not
gotten there yet, though he definitely should have. Whatever the case was, he
showed up in the ambulance and looked terribly distraught.
There were no rooms available so I held his hand in the
hallway as he drifted in and out of consciousness, though for the most part he
was out. When he came-to for a brief moment, I told him where he was and that
they were going to take care of him. His breathing was very fast and he could
not speak, just form sounds that possibly meant something. I would say
"Relax" as calmly as possible and he would drift back off.
Confused by lack of answers to my questions, I began to
panic. After taking him into a room for some tests, the doctor came out to ask
me if my father had left instructions to not resuscitate him if it came to that,
which I knew was his wish. But from all the talk about things that did not seem
life-threatening, my confusion increased.
My aunt and uncle arrived as my father was behind a curtain,
making bizarre noises related to whatever they were doing to him. Doing for him, I should say.
I called my mother and simply broke down while the nurse
whose phone I borrowed stared at me, waiting for me to return it. I was crying
to my mother while my father was suffering in the next room and her concern was
that I might make another long-distance phone call.
The details you remember from
helpless situations are strange.
After some time, my dad was moved into a "regular"
hospital room to remain overnight. He had an oxygen mask on and was still very
out of it. The staff had all but said he would be fine and that we could visit
as early as we wanted the next day.
My aunt and uncle said good night and I went in to say a few
words to my dad, which will remain private in my mind. I gave him a hug, told
him I loved him, and left the room after a tiring night.
Had I known that was the last time I would see my father
alive, well, I cannot really say what I would have done or said differently, if
anything.
…
The hospital called at 5:38AM.
I knew before answering.
Had the doctor spoken better English, I would not have had
to mask my anger with more tears. After saying I would be at the hospital
shortly, I had the loneliest few minutes I can remember. I called my uncle,
then threw some clothes on.
Like the beginning of this writing, I had to figure out what
to wear. What do you wear to the hospital on the morning of your father's death?
This time did not matter as much.
I arrived and asked a nurse how this happened. Whatever her
answer was immediately drifted into some dark realm at the back of my mind.
She asked if I wanted to go in to see him, which I certainly
did not want to do but obviously had to.
…
His eyes were open.
I felt vacant upon seeing him and backed against the wall,
breathing heavily. All I could do was stare, but not for long.
I left and wandered the hallways of the quiet hospital
before sitting in a room outside the elevators, waiting for what seemed like years
for my uncle to arrive. I led him to the room, which he entered and came out of
almost as quickly as I had.
After talking to a nurse for a short while, my
uncle and I discussed what had to be done. Keeping busy can be best at times of
sorrow.
Back at what was now solely my house, we decided to tackle
the most difficult part first- phone calls. We made a list of people and picked
names.
The first person I spoke to was my father's best friend,
also named Bob. He knew right away. That was the hardest call of the morning
because he began crying immediately. The purity of it all nearly made me
collapse.
After some more tough conversations, my uncle and I went to
work.
Our first stop was the nursing home that had been so good to
my father. They greeted us, smiling as always, asking when he would return.
They had no idea. Apparently the hospital had not made that call.
I was doing relatively all right until a nurse gave me two
pictures. To the home, they were periodic shots taken to update a resident's
file. But they were more than that- the last pictures ever taken of my father.
Looking at either one, you would have no idea of the
situation. But I could see the concentrated struggle in his smiles. It was then
that I broke the hardest, probably because I was trying to hide it so much. I
calmed down, went to his room, and quickly put his belongings into boxes.
While busy with that, a nurse said “George is here. Would
you like to see him?” My father's roommate. I knew him the least out of
everyone I saw that week yet his crying face made my heart stop. All I could do
was thank him- for inspiring my dad when he was hesitant, for listening to his
stories over and over, for simply feeling as empty as I was.
…
After a heart-felt goodbye to the center, our next stop the funeral home. As the owner asked questions, my uncle and I took turns
answering, as neither of us could respond to more than a couple without having
to look away and wipe our faces.
One thing that made us smile oddly came from the book
of prayers for the backs of funeral cards. We each took a side of pages and at
one point said simultaneously, "You have to read this one". The same poem had been printed twice. It was perfect. It summed up all that needed to be
said- that the suffering was over and the good memories should be kept always.
Our awkward smiles were swiftly removed upon being led into
the casket room. How do you pick the right one? Is there such a thing? After
much thought, we kept it simple, yet tasteful- two words I feel describe my
father quite accurately.
We returned to my house to call the same people, this time
with the arrangement details.
My uncle left, yet I did not feel totally alone. I am not a
believer in spirits or souls, but I do think my father somehow had returned to
the house for a final visit of sorts.
After making phone calls to my friends, I ordered my dad's
favorite dish from our usual take-out place and went to bed, somehow, with a
clear mind.
…
The viewing was two days later.
After my family’s private time, the first person to arrive
was our former neighbor, who was always very nice and helpful. Though not much
of a comfort to me, he said that his wife was now taking good care of my
father, in Heaven.
The next few hours were filled mostly with my dad's former
co-workers expressing their sorrow and sharing at least a few funny stories
from years past.
After leaving for dinner and a much-needed beer, it was time
for the night viewing, which I knew would be especially tough, because my dad's and my
close friends would all be there.
I was absolutely right, but it did help me realize
something. I had always seen wakes and funerals as ways to make money from
sadness. I still believe that but now know going to one may be depressing or uncomfortable
but having one for a family member does help tremendously. I always knew my
family and friends were there for me but seeing a good number of them all in
one place really made me appreciate it.
By the end of the second viewing, I was exhausted. Plus, I
had to somehow prepare myself for the funeral less than twelve hours away.
…
A priest came in to say some prayers and we were off to the
cemetery, where my grandmother, who was also taken too young, is buried. The
cemetery is right next to a golf course, which my father always said he wanted
to be as close to as possible upon his death. I kept his wishes and could
practically see him teeing up right then.
After the "final" farewells, my eyes were on the
casket until it was out of sight.
Most of the group joined us at a restaurant to celebrate my
father's life. It really was nice, and at the risk of sounding predictable, it
was exactly what my dad would have wanted.
…
It has been over a month now and my head is still spinning,
but truthfully, things are easier and will continue to be so. This is sort of a
rebirth for me, as I now have freedom to do practically what I wish. My dad
always led me along a good path, and I am going to do all I can to keep
following it.
To end on something of a light note: My father once received
a beautiful gold clock from his company for being their salesman of the year. He
dropped it one day, knocking the face off and denting the top so it would not
slide back in correctly.
One afternoon before visiting him at the home, I looked at
the clock and realized I could fix it easily with some pliers. I did just that
and brought it to show him. I have never seen him nor anybody else so happy. He
wore a beaming smile while staring at it the whole time, constantly thanking
me.
It was one of the best feelings I have ever had.
The only problem with the clock was that it kept randomly stopping.
I would wind it but the hands would always stop again.
The morning of the viewings, I decided to display it among
the pictures and other things.
I wound it once more and it has not stopped since.
Again, I am not much for spirits or anything like that, but
there is something in me that does believe part of my dad is living on through
that clock, which meant so much to him.
I know the motor will stop eventually but every time I look
at it, I will smile because I am who I am today greatly because my father
always guided me to be my best.
I love you, Dad. Thank you for giving me so much. And I know,
wherever you are, that you have finally hit your hole-in-one...
…
AFTERWORD 1/19/2022
This was tough for me to read again, especially the last
bit. It took me over an hour to edit the final few pages because I stopped
often to take a deep breath and/or wipe my eyes.
It read as if it was fiction. I kept thinking, ‘That poor
guy’, then stepping back to remember the poor guy was me.
I still do not believe in spirits, especially because if
they do exist, my father would have come back to kick my ass years ago for
being a lazy bum.
But I am glad I re-experienced this with the intention of
showing it to anyone who is willing to read. Writing this was extremely helpful
at the time and my hope is sharing it will inspire people to let their emotions
run, especially in bad situations.
If you have a story like this of your own, I would be
honored to read it.
Cheers.
