IT IS
WHAT IT IS
FOREWORD
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 writing, I found a good deal of it
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 dealing 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 into the first half of 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.
It’s a fairly tough read. Good luck.
…
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 was, 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 own good,
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, or 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 a pair of 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 bicycle.
…
“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.
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 chit-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
myself. Someone had to.
[Added later: One of my biggest regrets is not talking
to some kind of counselor 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 6pm, I went 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 didn’t 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 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 just don’t 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 Angie (his
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 is old and probably meant no harm by it, but like
I have said many times, I don’t 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 don’t really care.
Take it all.
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 shouldn’t 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 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 know by this point already. 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.
Now I 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. 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 doesn’t 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 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 he is
not utterly confused, he’ll 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 isn’t 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 it’s 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.
I don’t know the average life expectancy nowadays, but
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
can’t 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.'
By this point, 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 the news.
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 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 thought/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’ve 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.
OK, maybe I am still a little angry, 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 shouldn’t
be any of those things, 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 don’t know what happens to a person after death but
I wouldn’t 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’s 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
didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
Our next stop after a heart-felt goodbye to the center
was 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 enough 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 one 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.
I knew it 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 or anybody that happy. He wore a
beaming smile while staring at it the whole time, constantly thanking me.
It was one of the best feelings I’ve 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 08/21/2024
I had this essay written for years before sharing it
with anybody, though I don’t know why. I wasn’t embarrassed or anything like
that. And I wasn’t afraid of what people might think of it.
I just… didn’t.
Eventually, I showed it to my mom, who cried and said
it was very good. She also expressed disappointment, since she had no idea most
of these thoughts existed.
More recently, I shared this writing on social media.
I remember posting it around 1am. When I checked on it the next morning (though
technically the same morning, blah blah blah) around 8, I saw dozens of “likes”
and comments.
My first thought was, ‘When did these people read
this!?’
It’s long and heavy- not exactly late-night reading
material.
Yet there it was.
All sorts of people shared all sorts of stories about
their own experiences with crises, whatever they looked like.
It was unexpected and amazing. Also, even more people
conveyed frustration because they didn’t know what was going on inside my head
at this time.
I noticed a theme.
This essay was tough for me to read again. It took me over
an hour to get through the final few pages because I stopped often to take a
deep breath. (But I didn’t cry. Not because of pride but I don’t even know if
I’m capable.)
At the risk of sounding egotistical, it’s powerful.
It read as if it was fiction. I kept thinking, ‘That
poor guy’, then stepping back to remember who the narrator was.
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.
Upon re-experiencing it, I noticed some similarities
between that man and my current self. We’re both stubborn and feel stuck in
situations we don’t really understand.
The difference is that I’m actually trying to change
things for the better. Whether or not I succeed in that endeavor is to be
determined.
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. The most important advice I’ve given to people since this
experience is to not hold back. If you’re angry, scream. If you’re sad, cry.
And do these things loudly, so others are aware.
Just don’t bottle emotions up. Trust me. With-holding
them is never healthy nor helpful.
Also, the ‘hole-in-one’ bit is nonsense. I didn’t even
believe that when I wrote it.
Then why did I? It’s what I thought was supposed
to be said.
So, there you have it. Carry on.
