REVISITING MY FATHER'S DEATH
"The Extra Re-Collection"
I never really blocked out the years that contained the waiting months leading to my father's death.
I didn't really understand it. I didn't understand what was happening, but then again, how much could a little six-year-old know about life and death anyway? I only knew what I saw, what I felt. That is what I remember.
I remember my father's face had taken a really odd shape. At this point, it was lopsided, and he could only open one of his eyes. For months he stayed in his bed, unable to get up and move about, except for the times my mother helped him walk from the bed to the bathroom and back.
Every night, my mother would bring him soup or anything he could eat without chewing. And every night, without fail, after dinner, I remember seeing my mother lift up his blanket, expose his bare thigh, and give him a needle. I hated seeing that. It made me bawl. I thought it hurt, even though he assured me that he couldn't feel it.
I loved him, but part of me was scared of him. His disfigured face often gave me nightmares.
Like I said, I didn't know what was happening. “Your father is sick,” is all Mother would say. I just didn't understand. What did she mean? Why was he sick? Why has he been sick for so long?
I didn't understand. I just felt the pain and the grief in the air every time I walked into my mother's room, and seeing her cry...sobbing for hours. And every night, when I could hear her bawling in the room next to mine, as I tried to fall asleep.
It wasn't until he moved to the hospital that I realized my father wasn't going to be staying with us for very long.
It seems like days, weeks, months, that we visited him in the hospital. I really don't know. He had his own little room, TV, bed, and wheelchair.
I remember staying overnight at the hospital. Once or twice, I don't remember. And he didn't just stay at one hospital...he was bumped around a bit before ending up in the hospital in which he would die.
I remember he needed help breathing. He wore one of those masks, you know? So many machines, so many tubes poking out of his skin. It looked like it hurt.
It didn't feel like it had just happened. It seemed like so long, it was as if the hospital was a part of our daily lifestyle now. The dull quiet atmosphere, the doctors, the hallways...
It was when my mother and sisters were all hovering over my father together and sobbing at the same time that I realized that this meant goodbye forever. I didn't really know the meaning of goodbye until that moment. Not really. Only the kind of goodbye you'd say to someone as they are leaving your house after a dinner party, or the kind of goodbye you'd say to your teacher at the end of each day.
Natalie, my older sister (21 at the time) decided that it was now finally time to take me for a long walk in the Hospital lobby. My sister took my little hand in hers, as she explained loss, life and death. She tried to make me understand what it meant for my father to “die.” As best she could. And that's when it hit me.
I remember crying.
I remember realizing that I may never see my father again.
I remember talking to him after that, not knowing whether or not he could hear me. He was not conscious. He did not respond. I just sat up with him, day after day, talking to him just like my mother told me to, watching and listening to him breathing loudly.
It was my father lying there in that bed, so lifeless, hanging on by a mere thread, suffering dearly. My Father! The same one that used to push my swing...the same one who used to rock me in his arms and kiss me, while I screamed in pain because of his painful stubble. And now, he couldn't respond to me. Hell, he couldn't even freaking look at me.
My mother explained to me what was going to happen when he left. They were going to put him in a box, dig a hole, and bury him. I didn't really think about it. I just never really believed that it would actually happen, I guess.
I remember when I found out, I was in my sister's old room, the one with the balcony above the garage and the piano on which my father would play. I was laying on the bed, ready to go to sleep, with my mother hovering over me, and I asked her, “so when Daddy goes to heaven, they will put him in the ground?” My mother replied with a casual “he's already in heaven.”
I remember crying.
"Poor little kid!"
"Poor Chris!"
That's all I heard the next day, when the adults would talk amongst themselves.
For the funeral, my mother bought an emerald hourse figurine to bury with my father
Before the service, we walked up the stairs of the funeral home to a room with my father's coffin. It had his name engraved on the foot end:
MIKE TO HANG CHAN
It was half open, leaving his upper body exposed. I remember he was wearing glasses, and I wondered if the coffin could shut properly with them on his face.
I remember the sterilized smell of the coffin, like a doctor's office. I saw him lifeless in front of me, like I had for awhile, but this time I could hear no breathing.
I reached out and touched his pillow. His head did not move. I reached out and touched his face. His skin was so hard. He just wasn't...him. This was the first dead body I had ever seen or touched. Seeing him like that, was a most shocking experience, even though the sound of him breathing and the stiffness of his skin was really the only difference I could physically see.
I remember seeing the coffin shut in the service before the limo drove us to the cemetary, and I saw the horse figurine close inside with it. And with that horse, they buried my father, and a piece of my personal history.
I never really blocked out the years that contained the waiting months leading to my father's death.
I didn't really understand it. I didn't understand what was happening, but then again, how much could a little six-year-old know about life and death anyway? I only knew what I saw, what I felt. That is what I remember.
I remember my father's face had taken a really odd shape. At this point, it was lopsided, and he could only open one of his eyes. For months he stayed in his bed, unable to get up and move about, except for the times my mother helped him walk from the bed to the bathroom and back.
Every night, my mother would bring him soup or anything he could eat without chewing. And every night, without fail, after dinner, I remember seeing my mother lift up his blanket, expose his bare thigh, and give him a needle. I hated seeing that. It made me bawl. I thought it hurt, even though he assured me that he couldn't feel it.
I loved him, but part of me was scared of him. His disfigured face often gave me nightmares.
Like I said, I didn't know what was happening. “Your father is sick,” is all Mother would say. I just didn't understand. What did she mean? Why was he sick? Why has he been sick for so long?
I didn't understand. I just felt the pain and the grief in the air every time I walked into my mother's room, and seeing her cry...sobbing for hours. And every night, when I could hear her bawling in the room next to mine, as I tried to fall asleep.
It wasn't until he moved to the hospital that I realized my father wasn't going to be staying with us for very long.
It seems like days, weeks, months, that we visited him in the hospital. I really don't know. He had his own little room, TV, bed, and wheelchair.
I remember staying overnight at the hospital. Once or twice, I don't remember. And he didn't just stay at one hospital...he was bumped around a bit before ending up in the hospital in which he would die.
I remember he needed help breathing. He wore one of those masks, you know? So many machines, so many tubes poking out of his skin. It looked like it hurt.
It didn't feel like it had just happened. It seemed like so long, it was as if the hospital was a part of our daily lifestyle now. The dull quiet atmosphere, the doctors, the hallways...
It was when my mother and sisters were all hovering over my father together and sobbing at the same time that I realized that this meant goodbye forever. I didn't really know the meaning of goodbye until that moment. Not really. Only the kind of goodbye you'd say to someone as they are leaving your house after a dinner party, or the kind of goodbye you'd say to your teacher at the end of each day.
Natalie, my older sister (21 at the time) decided that it was now finally time to take me for a long walk in the Hospital lobby. My sister took my little hand in hers, as she explained loss, life and death. She tried to make me understand what it meant for my father to “die.” As best she could. And that's when it hit me.
I remember crying.
I remember realizing that I may never see my father again.
I remember talking to him after that, not knowing whether or not he could hear me. He was not conscious. He did not respond. I just sat up with him, day after day, talking to him just like my mother told me to, watching and listening to him breathing loudly.
It was my father lying there in that bed, so lifeless, hanging on by a mere thread, suffering dearly. My Father! The same one that used to push my swing...the same one who used to rock me in his arms and kiss me, while I screamed in pain because of his painful stubble. And now, he couldn't respond to me. Hell, he couldn't even freaking look at me.
My mother explained to me what was going to happen when he left. They were going to put him in a box, dig a hole, and bury him. I didn't really think about it. I just never really believed that it would actually happen, I guess.
I remember when I found out, I was in my sister's old room, the one with the balcony above the garage and the piano on which my father would play. I was laying on the bed, ready to go to sleep, with my mother hovering over me, and I asked her, “so when Daddy goes to heaven, they will put him in the ground?” My mother replied with a casual “he's already in heaven.”
I remember crying.
"Poor little kid!"
"Poor Chris!"
That's all I heard the next day, when the adults would talk amongst themselves.
For the funeral, my mother bought an emerald hourse figurine to bury with my father
Before the service, we walked up the stairs of the funeral home to a room with my father's coffin. It had his name engraved on the foot end:
MIKE TO HANG CHAN
It was half open, leaving his upper body exposed. I remember he was wearing glasses, and I wondered if the coffin could shut properly with them on his face.
I remember the sterilized smell of the coffin, like a doctor's office. I saw him lifeless in front of me, like I had for awhile, but this time I could hear no breathing.
I reached out and touched his pillow. His head did not move. I reached out and touched his face. His skin was so hard. He just wasn't...him. This was the first dead body I had ever seen or touched. Seeing him like that, was a most shocking experience, even though the sound of him breathing and the stiffness of his skin was really the only difference I could physically see.
I remember seeing the coffin shut in the service before the limo drove us to the cemetary, and I saw the horse figurine close inside with it. And with that horse, they buried my father, and a piece of my personal history.