Rat Eater
Rat Eater
Various media on paper
It has been bad. I’m not prepared for this at all. I always knew when it came time for my dad to die that it would be really hard on me, that it would destroy me. I never expected it to be this bad. It didn’t have to be this bad. But it is.
After months of being in hospitals and rehab, we finally got him home with the miraculous help of my brother. But my dad only lasted three days. My mother was so abusive to him that I can’t even allow space here for her selfish words. It was horrible.
I know that my dad wouldn’t be home long, so I spent time with him before it was too late. So did Bean. We both knew that these would be the last times we would see my dad in his house.
The Sunday after he returned home, I walked into my parents unannounced. They didn’t hear me come in. I could hear my mother yelling at my dad the minute I stepped inside. She was so horribly cruel, mean and selfish.
I walked into my dad’s bedroom and told her to shut the fuck up and get out, that I wanted to visit my dad. It was a very bad situation.
I wasn’t surprised when I got the phone call the next morning saying that he was in the hospital. I howled from the bottom of my gut. I howled so loud that strangers knocked on my office door to see if I was okay.
I did everything I could to get my dad a place in assisted living, where he could have an apartment with his things separate from my mother. Social workers and nurses were calling me telling me my mother was abusive to my father in front of them. They asked me to file and APS suit against her. All this was happening when I was in the most brutal part of my grant deadline.
I spent five hours getting the social workers and assisted living place to get my dad to sign a release for the things that were important to him - his bed, his chair, his TV so that he could move in to the apartment. I talked to my dad. He was lucid, clear and happy. He was so excited that I was taking care of him and that he was going to go live in the assisted living apartment.
The movers arrived at my mom’s house. I arranged for the police and Bean’s dad to go with them. They had a signed list of things my dad needed. My mom refused to let them in.
Bean’s dad went to the hospital. My dad was cheery. He asked, “How did the move go?” C had to tell my dad that it didn’t go, that my mother refused to let them move my dad’s things. C called me and I rushed to the hospital. By the time I got there, my dad was in convulsions. He hasn’t come back since.
My mother told a social worker in front of my dad, “I don’t care if you put him in a closet, just take care of me.” Literal quote.
When my mom refused to let my dad have his things, my dad gave up on life. He has deteriorated ever since.
Today he moved to hospice. He barely knows who I am when I go visit. He will spend the rest of his life on morphine and he will never get out of bed again. He’ll never see his house again. He’ll never see outside again.
I can’t even begin to express the pain I am going through. This kind of crying is like nothing I experienced in my life.
Every little thing reminds me of my dad, and all the good things about him. The Christmas village he put under the tree when I was a kid, with the mirror ice lake, and the real train that went around it. Our trips to Santa Cruz for my birthday, and mostly how damn proud my dad always was of everything I accomplished.
When I graduated from UC Berkeley, he was the proudest man on earth. I made it. I got off the streets, and put myself through UC Berkeley. When I had my solo art show, my dad made it to the gallery in his wheelchair. I gave him his favorite Pen Noise. I will hang it in his hospice.
My dad is dying. I don’t know how long he will hold on. The doctor said that all of his organs are failing. He has completely lost the will to live. He is suffering from malnutrition because he won’t eat.
Yet he still knows when the 49ers are playing. He still knew that my grant deadline was September 20.
My pain is SO HUGE.
I came home tonight in a daze, and I worked on this art because my dad actually really likes my art. My dad has NEVER resented any of my successes. He has always only been proud, unlike the woman who drove him to where he is now.
Death is not easy, but it didn’t have to be this hard.
I am not prepared to deal with this. I am just letting you know this pain is unfathomable. I want to hold onto my dad. I don’t want to let him go, yet he’s going.
Last night I was in a natural food store with Bean. She asked, “Mom, you seem strange. Are you okay? Are you mad?” I just started crying. I said, “I’m sad about Papa. He’s my dad.” And the tears poured out. Bean took me to the herbal remedy aisle, and we asked the man there for something for sadness. He recommended Holy Basil. I’m taking it just because I feel like I need to do something and because Bean wants to help me with my sadness.
Bean has been going to the gym with me, and she’s been such a great kid. She is taking this better than I am, but I also have protected her from the worse abuses of my mother.
Anyway, I’m really sad. I don’t know when I’ll function again. This is so fucking hard. I have cried so much, yet I still have oceans of tears pouring out of me.
I’m going to bed now. I’m sorry I’m a bore. I just can’t find myself right now. All I can do is feel this tremendous sense of pain and sadness.