Dad
My dad died last Friday.
It was sudden and unexpected and he didn't suffer. He went to the hospital Thursday morning because he felt he couldn't breathe and found he had double pneumonia and his kidneys were beginning to fail. By Friday morning, his kidneys had begun to work again, but by the afternoon, his lungs were failing - his oxygen levels were at 60% and both lungs were filled with fluid. He was intubated and heavily sedated. Eventually his heart failed and my step-mother told the doctor not to resuscitate. My sisters and I are in complete agreement with her - dad was 66 but has been in ill health for most of his life. His mind was young and sharp but his body was tired and worn out and my sister Peggy (who is a nurse) told us that, even if the doctor could have revived him - and he didn't think he could - dad probably wouldn't have lived more than another day. If he had it would have been as an invalid. We all know he wouldn't have wanted that.
Dad was an ordained minister, a social worker, a counselor, and a teacher. He was kind-hearted, generous, and loved unconditionally. When we were growing up, if he ever thought he had wronged us in any way, he would apologize and tell us he'd been in the wrong - I can't think of many of my friends' parents who would do that. Dad rarely pastored his own church - only once or twice after I was an adult that I remember - but he did a lot of pulpit supply work (substitute preaching) when we were kids. His style was simple and understated and emphasized God's grace and mercy, the love of Jesus Christ for all. He had a beautiful singing voice and used to love to sing in the choir, sing solos and duets and trios, and lead the choir at times. More recently he couldn't sing in the choir because he just couldn't stand that long. One of the most consistent things I've heard from people these past few days is that no one ever heard a bad word from Dad about anyone. Thinking back, I realize that's true. He did not gossip or backbite and he readily forgave people who wronged him.
My dad was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at the age of 16 (the same year his mother died) and suffered from chronic pain for 50 years. When he was 36, both his hips were replaced and the next year he broke his femur and had to spend a second summer in a cast from hip to toe. Since then, he walked with a cane and a limp and had to wear shoes with special soles (one built up about three inches higher than the other). His spine was bent and stiff and I can't remember when he was last able to turn his head. Over the past 45 years, he lost 4 or 5 inches in height from the arthritis. About 20 years ago, he had bladder cancer, which was treated with surgery, and since then he's had to have periodic treatments with chemotherapy. Along with the arthritis, he suffered from bouts of iritis and kidney problems. And yet in all those years, I never heard him complain about his health, about being in pain, about how difficult it was for him to do things at times - things as simple as putting on his socks - and I've been hearing the same thing these past few days from everyone else.
About three weeks ago, my step-mom suggested dad come to Indiana to visit us and he did. He spent a week with us, a week in which we saw him every single day, ate supper with him every night, and spent each evening sitting on Peggy's porch, talking, laughing together, enjoying each other's company. He had retired just a couple of months earlier and while he was there, told us that he planned to come and spend a week with us each summer in Bremen. He was hoping for another 10 years, he said, but looking back, we all think that he probably wasn't feeling as well as he led us to believe. He'd had chemo treatments earlier in the year and this time they really affected him; he felt ill for a long time and was still not at his best during his visit. We're wondering if perhaps his doctor had told him this was it and the next time the cancer recurred he wouldn't be able to be treated. I don't think, and neither do my sisters, that he thought he was going to die three weeks later, but we wonder if perhaps he suspected it might be the last visit with us. If so, he didn't let on. He wouldn't have; he would have wanted the last visit to be a happy one.
Dad wasn't perfect - he could be moody sometimes, impatient sometimes. When he was younger, he could have a short temper, though as he got older, the less apparent that was. (Hmm. Perhaps that should be "the older we got" - 'cause I hate to say it, but none of us were perfect either!) But he was a good man, a good Christian, a good husband, and a good father. Thinking about him these past few days, talking with other people, reminiscing, makes me want to be a better person, a better Christian, wife, sister, daughter. I can't help wishing I'd been a better daughter to him - but I know if I told him that today, he would tell me I was always a good daughter and that he was always proud of me.
We didn't write or phone a lot - none of my family does, for some reason, but when we do, it always seems as if no time has passed since the last time. Dad and I hadn't spoken since his visit - in fact, I was thinking I needed to call him this week, then we got the call he was in the hospital. We had a good time together when he was here and the night before he left - the last time I saw him, he hugged me and kissed me goodbye as he always did and told me the same thing he told me every time he talked to me: "I just want you to know that I love you and I'm proud of you. I'm proud of all three of my beautiful girls." If there must be last words from a father to a daughter, I can't think of better ones.
I'm currently in Texas with my sisters and brother-in-law (DH is staying home to take care of the menagerie). My youngest niece didn't want to come and we didn't make her; my nephew is in his first month of college and can't leave. My oldest niece will get here tomorrow, as will my cousin Dave (Aunt Lizzie's younger son) and his wife and son . Their daughter is just beginning her Masters program in Boston and can't leave. Another cousin, who lives just a few hours away will drive up tomorrow evening, with his wife and oldest daughter, so we'll have several relatives here with us, along with our step-mom, step-brother, and step-sister with her husband and five kids. Dad was well-liked and well-loved and I think there will be a lot of people at the funeral.
This was always meant to be a fannish journal, not a personal one (but that plan didn't seem to work out!) and it's really for that reason that I rarely mention my faith here. Right now, I can't help but mention it because without my sincere belief that my dad is in Heaven right now and that I will see him again some day, this would be completely devastating. It's not. I'm grief-stricken but - well, as my sister said, "Without my faith I would be in despair but I'm not. I'm just sad."
I am sad. I'm sad and my life has changed so utterly that I couldn't imagine it, even when I would think about this before it ever happened, trying to prepare somehow for the future. There are things I don't think I will ever get used to. Is it possible to get used to saying "my dad is dead"? Will I ever wake up again and not have "dad is dead" be my first thought of the day? I feel like I'm too young for my father to have died but I know that's not true. My dad was 32 when his dad died, my mom was 12, my friend Wendy from grade school was 5. I'm 44; I was blessed with my father for a long time.
In spite of that, in spite of wishing we'd had more time together, that I'd phoned him earlier last week, that I hadn't been such an utter pill as a teenager, I would not ask God to send him back now even if I could. My dad can look from side to side, he can look up, he can walk without a cane and a limp and for the first time in 50 years he has no pain. I like to imagine him running. I'm sure he's singing. My sister says she can just picture Aunt Lizzie, meeting him at the gates of Heaven saying, "Gawd, Jackie, I've been waiting forever! What took you so long?" I think someday he'll meet me there, smiling, with his eyes lighting up when he sees me, as they always did, saying, "Hey, hello! How as your trip? I'm glad you made it."
Goodbye, Dad, I love you. I know that you sometimes doubted that you were a good father to us, but that was never true. I would not have chosen to have another father if I were offered the choice at any time in my life. I'm glad you can know that now without a doubt. See you later.
It was sudden and unexpected and he didn't suffer. He went to the hospital Thursday morning because he felt he couldn't breathe and found he had double pneumonia and his kidneys were beginning to fail. By Friday morning, his kidneys had begun to work again, but by the afternoon, his lungs were failing - his oxygen levels were at 60% and both lungs were filled with fluid. He was intubated and heavily sedated. Eventually his heart failed and my step-mother told the doctor not to resuscitate. My sisters and I are in complete agreement with her - dad was 66 but has been in ill health for most of his life. His mind was young and sharp but his body was tired and worn out and my sister Peggy (who is a nurse) told us that, even if the doctor could have revived him - and he didn't think he could - dad probably wouldn't have lived more than another day. If he had it would have been as an invalid. We all know he wouldn't have wanted that.
Dad was an ordained minister, a social worker, a counselor, and a teacher. He was kind-hearted, generous, and loved unconditionally. When we were growing up, if he ever thought he had wronged us in any way, he would apologize and tell us he'd been in the wrong - I can't think of many of my friends' parents who would do that. Dad rarely pastored his own church - only once or twice after I was an adult that I remember - but he did a lot of pulpit supply work (substitute preaching) when we were kids. His style was simple and understated and emphasized God's grace and mercy, the love of Jesus Christ for all. He had a beautiful singing voice and used to love to sing in the choir, sing solos and duets and trios, and lead the choir at times. More recently he couldn't sing in the choir because he just couldn't stand that long. One of the most consistent things I've heard from people these past few days is that no one ever heard a bad word from Dad about anyone. Thinking back, I realize that's true. He did not gossip or backbite and he readily forgave people who wronged him.
My dad was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at the age of 16 (the same year his mother died) and suffered from chronic pain for 50 years. When he was 36, both his hips were replaced and the next year he broke his femur and had to spend a second summer in a cast from hip to toe. Since then, he walked with a cane and a limp and had to wear shoes with special soles (one built up about three inches higher than the other). His spine was bent and stiff and I can't remember when he was last able to turn his head. Over the past 45 years, he lost 4 or 5 inches in height from the arthritis. About 20 years ago, he had bladder cancer, which was treated with surgery, and since then he's had to have periodic treatments with chemotherapy. Along with the arthritis, he suffered from bouts of iritis and kidney problems. And yet in all those years, I never heard him complain about his health, about being in pain, about how difficult it was for him to do things at times - things as simple as putting on his socks - and I've been hearing the same thing these past few days from everyone else.
About three weeks ago, my step-mom suggested dad come to Indiana to visit us and he did. He spent a week with us, a week in which we saw him every single day, ate supper with him every night, and spent each evening sitting on Peggy's porch, talking, laughing together, enjoying each other's company. He had retired just a couple of months earlier and while he was there, told us that he planned to come and spend a week with us each summer in Bremen. He was hoping for another 10 years, he said, but looking back, we all think that he probably wasn't feeling as well as he led us to believe. He'd had chemo treatments earlier in the year and this time they really affected him; he felt ill for a long time and was still not at his best during his visit. We're wondering if perhaps his doctor had told him this was it and the next time the cancer recurred he wouldn't be able to be treated. I don't think, and neither do my sisters, that he thought he was going to die three weeks later, but we wonder if perhaps he suspected it might be the last visit with us. If so, he didn't let on. He wouldn't have; he would have wanted the last visit to be a happy one.
Dad wasn't perfect - he could be moody sometimes, impatient sometimes. When he was younger, he could have a short temper, though as he got older, the less apparent that was. (Hmm. Perhaps that should be "the older we got" - 'cause I hate to say it, but none of us were perfect either!) But he was a good man, a good Christian, a good husband, and a good father. Thinking about him these past few days, talking with other people, reminiscing, makes me want to be a better person, a better Christian, wife, sister, daughter. I can't help wishing I'd been a better daughter to him - but I know if I told him that today, he would tell me I was always a good daughter and that he was always proud of me.
We didn't write or phone a lot - none of my family does, for some reason, but when we do, it always seems as if no time has passed since the last time. Dad and I hadn't spoken since his visit - in fact, I was thinking I needed to call him this week, then we got the call he was in the hospital. We had a good time together when he was here and the night before he left - the last time I saw him, he hugged me and kissed me goodbye as he always did and told me the same thing he told me every time he talked to me: "I just want you to know that I love you and I'm proud of you. I'm proud of all three of my beautiful girls." If there must be last words from a father to a daughter, I can't think of better ones.
I'm currently in Texas with my sisters and brother-in-law (DH is staying home to take care of the menagerie). My youngest niece didn't want to come and we didn't make her; my nephew is in his first month of college and can't leave. My oldest niece will get here tomorrow, as will my cousin Dave (Aunt Lizzie's younger son) and his wife and son . Their daughter is just beginning her Masters program in Boston and can't leave. Another cousin, who lives just a few hours away will drive up tomorrow evening, with his wife and oldest daughter, so we'll have several relatives here with us, along with our step-mom, step-brother, and step-sister with her husband and five kids. Dad was well-liked and well-loved and I think there will be a lot of people at the funeral.
This was always meant to be a fannish journal, not a personal one (but that plan didn't seem to work out!) and it's really for that reason that I rarely mention my faith here. Right now, I can't help but mention it because without my sincere belief that my dad is in Heaven right now and that I will see him again some day, this would be completely devastating. It's not. I'm grief-stricken but - well, as my sister said, "Without my faith I would be in despair but I'm not. I'm just sad."
I am sad. I'm sad and my life has changed so utterly that I couldn't imagine it, even when I would think about this before it ever happened, trying to prepare somehow for the future. There are things I don't think I will ever get used to. Is it possible to get used to saying "my dad is dead"? Will I ever wake up again and not have "dad is dead" be my first thought of the day? I feel like I'm too young for my father to have died but I know that's not true. My dad was 32 when his dad died, my mom was 12, my friend Wendy from grade school was 5. I'm 44; I was blessed with my father for a long time.
In spite of that, in spite of wishing we'd had more time together, that I'd phoned him earlier last week, that I hadn't been such an utter pill as a teenager, I would not ask God to send him back now even if I could. My dad can look from side to side, he can look up, he can walk without a cane and a limp and for the first time in 50 years he has no pain. I like to imagine him running. I'm sure he's singing. My sister says she can just picture Aunt Lizzie, meeting him at the gates of Heaven saying, "Gawd, Jackie, I've been waiting forever! What took you so long?" I think someday he'll meet me there, smiling, with his eyes lighting up when he sees me, as they always did, saying, "Hey, hello! How as your trip? I'm glad you made it."
Goodbye, Dad, I love you. I know that you sometimes doubted that you were a good father to us, but that was never true. I would not have chosen to have another father if I were offered the choice at any time in my life. I'm glad you can know that now without a doubt. See you later.