In Your Heart, They Only Die a Little at a Time
I try to skate by these two weeks because time seems to stop on October 21st and doesn't start back up again until after November 4th. On one flip of the coin, time is fleeting. How could six years have passed in nothing more than a blink of an eye? And then the coin lands precariously on its rim until it falls to the other side. These have been the longest six years of my life. How can both things be possible?
Six years ago tonight, a family friend Freddie succumb to the brain cancer that had destroyed not only his memory, but his life. It was a sign of things to come, in retrospect. There had been a fight over dinner. We were a few days shy of the three month "anniversary" of my Grandmother's death. There had been no real time to mourn. No time to grasp what was happening, so long as Dad was still terminal and Mom had cancer. Fear ruled our lives and often caused tension. Mom and I didn't know how to allow ourselves time to grieve - not just over Grandma's death, but for the drastic changes that had taken place that Memorial Day weekend six months before. It was easier to be angry, it was easier to shout and scream as a way of denying the real underlying emotion. What we felt was pure terror. I was losing my hero, my best friend, the light that guided me home. I was losing my father. The only person who had never broken a promise to me. The only person who never raised his hand or voice in anger. He believed in me and told me so every single day. I cannot tell you how many times we said "I love you," even before he was diagnosed with the brain tumor and congestive heart failure. Even before that first damning stroke.
I can recall the dinner (roast beef, gravy, and potatoes), how it tasted, how it smelt. And mostly how much Dad was enjoying it. But Mom and I could not leave well enough alone. The one thing I cannot recall is what prompted the fight. It was just so much easier to scream, to hide the tears. Dad, who so rarely lost his temper, threw his utensils down on the table, shouting angrily, "If you have nothing nice to say don't say anything." It shamed us both and the rest of the meal was eaten in silence. After finishing, I got up and grabbed my mp3 CD player (the last gift given to me by my Grandma) and set about doing the dishes. When that was done, I started gathering up the trash. I was so ashamed at being so selfish. I wasn't the one who was dying. I tried not to make eye-contact, but he had a way of making me look up when I least wanted to. I can still feel the tears in my eyes, threatening at any moment to spill over. He held his arms open wide and I ran to him, praying to God that He'd change His mind and would therefore spare my beloved father. How was I supposed to live without this man? Without my Rock of Gibraltar? I knew that when he died - when he left me for good - he would take a piece of my heart and soul with him.
I ran to those open arms, and like the four year old I had once been, I curled into his lap. I must have crushed him, but you never would have known it by looking in his eyes. I wish I could put into words how beautiful and kind his eyes were. How they twinkled when he was up to his pranks, or when he had a really good joke or story to tell. He held me close and said, "I love you, Pup." I was the only one he had ever given a nickname to. I was his best friend. His confidant. The one person who was always cheering him on from the sidelines. I kissed his forehead and told him that I loved him too.
Why didn't I stay upstairs that night? I could have sat with him just a bit longer. I would have had more time, because I didn't know that the clock was ticking down and the span of his life could no longer be measured in years, months, or weeks. We were counting down the days. And instead of staying upstairs with him, I went downstairs to watch Windtalkers. Halfway into the movie that I wasn't even paying attention to, I heard a crash and without knowing how I knew, I just knew. It was Dad, and it was bad. I sat there, wanting to delay the inevitable. I heard Mom scream and I had no choice but to run upstairs. He was on the floor and it was clear he had suffered another stroke.
As stupid as it sounds, it hit me in the gut right then and there. I had always hoped that the diagnosis was wrong, that somehow Dad would prove them all wrong. He was admitted to what was then North Arundel Hospital. And that was the beginning of what would prove to be a very painful and drawn out end. No matter how much time passes, until I too am lying on my death bed, I will believe that it was all my fault. That I ultimately killed him. If I had stayed up with him, maybe he wouldn't have had a stroke (fools logic, I know). If I hadn't arranged his sheets - messing them up from what he was used to - maybe he wouldn't have had a stroke (even more fools logic). Maybe this, maybe that. But that is only part of the reason that I blame myself.
The doctor - the neurologist I recently stopped seeing in favor of Dr. Oh - wanted to put in a feeding tube. Candy, as Dad's oldest (she's my half-sister) child, was called first. She refused to even talk about it, but agreed to fly in. David was called next. Like Candy, he was in denial, telling us to make the decision ourselves. Scott was next. His answer was swift - put the feeding tube in. Mom, near hysterics, went to dial the phone and I whispered, "Don't I get a say?" She called Dr. Dughly, intent on telling him to put the feeding tube in. I grabbed the phone and said a firm, "NO." Through her tears, she glared at me and took the phone again. This time I grabbed the phone and threw it across the room. "Dad wouldn't want it."
This was the time of the D.C Sniper. I prayed, throughout all of this, that his bullet would find my heart. I would sit in the hospital with Dad, visiting him whenever I could. I insisted that he come home, to die surrounded by his family and those he loved. Hospice literally begged us to put him in Hospice House. When Mom said no, Kathleen (our primary nurse for both Dad and Grandma) tried to talk me into it. I pointed out that Dad and Grandma had wanted one thing - to die at home. He still had the hospital bed from Grandma and so Dad was moved into that room. Someone was always sitting with him. Scott flew out that night and we (Mom, Scott and I) took shifts. I kept a handwritten journal during that bleak time and one day, when I am in a better frame of mind, I will type some of the entries out. Even with Dad dying, some aspects of life continued on regardless of our personal tragedies. I was taking a class at UMBC and couldn't afford to miss it. I sat for the midterm, sure I would fail. The teacher pulled me aside, pointing out that I wasn't my usual smiling, joking self. I told him what was going on and he admonished me for even coming to class. He would have excused me from the test. I explained that some things had to remain normal. We all clung to the status pro.
We put a stereo in Dad's room and played a variety of jazz, Beatles, and bagpipes. I had the night-time shift. I'd sit with him, talking to him, praying to God that he could hear me. The worst thing was having to shift Dad to try and prevent bedsores. It was useless. His body was breaking down and his bedsores became infected. It was one horror after another. All of us were crying. All of us were in pain.
I don't know why, but I was certain Dad would die on my birthday - November 1st. When he didn't, I didn't know whether or not to be relieved. By that time, I wasn't going to work or school. But on November 4th, I went to school. I went to class. Work celebrated (half heartedly) my birthday. I tried to smile. I tried to breathe through the pain. And when the phone rang, I knew. It was Scott. In a pain filled voice, he told me to come home. It was time.
During this time, my Aunt Carole and cousin Denise came down from New York to be with us. While I was at work, Mom took the time to run to the food store with Carole and Denise in tow. Scott was exhausted and went to lay down on the couch. It was during that time, when no one was guarding him, when no one was watching over him, that he slipped away. I drove home from work praying that I wasn't too late. I ran in the front door and saw Scott standing at the top of the stairs. I may complain a lot about Scott, but when we were little kids, he was my best friend. He taught me to ride a bike, to go fishing and crabbing, and how to play baseball. But as we grew up, he seemed not to like me, though why I wasn't sure. When he saw me, he shook his head and I could see the barely hidden pain. I shook my head and walked backwards, as though I could somehow reverse all of this. Scott came down the stairs and grabbed me into a hug. The tears came then, as they are coming now. I tried to scream, but instead heard this horrible keening sound. Then I realized that the sound was coming from me. He just held onto me and somehow kept me standing.
I slowly made my way upstairs. Mom hugged me too, but tried to pull me away from heading into Dad's room. She didn't want me going in there. I shook her off and when in there anyway. I bent down and kissed his forehead. The tears came faster then and it was hard to breathe. He was dressed in a hospital gown and I didn't want to send him out like that. He deserved so much better. I got a washcloth and some warm water and gently cleaned him up. Mom watched from the doorway, unable to make her way into the room. "I have to get him dressed," I cried. I dressed him in his favorite pajama bottoms and the tee-shirt I thought he'd never like but bought as a gag anyway. It loudly proclaimed, "World's Favorite Dad." He loved that shirt. He damn near wore it out. I dressed him, crying over him, wishing my tears could restore the life that had just fled.
October 21, 2002 - November 4, 2002 is a black hole of despair. Of misery. I thought that I would succumb to my pain and would check out of this world - whether through a selfish act or from the sheer weight of the pain I was in. My family was afraid that I wouldn't pull through, never realizing that I would be the one to pull them through. Dad wouldn't want me to cry, but there are so many unanswered questions. Does he know how much I love him? Does he know that he meant the world to me? Was I a good daughter? Was I who he wanted me to be? Was he proud? Is he proud? Does he hear me?
How do you put into words the intense pain felt after the death of someone you love more than life itself? I went into a deep, deep depression. I shut myself off. I stopped seeing color. Everything was in dark hues. The only time I was happy was in those first few nano-seconds after my alarm sounded. Those few seconds offered a reprieve. And then the memories would come flooding back.
Did I do enough? Did I take care him him good enough?
The pain will never heal. Can never heal. He was my whole life, my reason for surviving a childhood best left forgotten. There is still a hole in my heart, but it's scabbed over a bit. I will always mourn the loss of him. He would be tickled pink to know that I am doing the very same job he once did.
What I miss most are our late night conversations. Dad would wake me up, asking, "You up for talking, Pup?" I always was. We'd sit at the kitchen table, eating the snacks Mom attempted to keep hidden. We'd talk about black holes, life on other planets, his life up until he married Mom, and so on. My friends couldn't understand why I would often choose hanging out him over them. Dad and I would play cards or just sit and talk. It was hard for others to understand. I knew from early childhood that my time with Dad would be shorter than the time my friends would have with theirs. I made my decisions by the colleges I chose. I have absolutely no regrets about the time I spent with him. I only wish that there had been moretime.
I know you're up in Heaven, drinking Glen Levit and having Filet Mignon. I know that you have finally been reunited with the parents you loved so dearly. Just know, Daddy, that your Pup will never forget you and will always be considered blessed because I had you in my life. If I had to do it all over again - endure the abuse all over again - I would, knowing that your love would pull me up. Wait for me, Daddy. Please, please, please don't forget about me. I couldn't bear it if I got up there and you weren't waiting for me. Maybe I don't deserve to go to Heaven, God knows the choices I sometimes made weren't the best.
I try not to rehash this every anniversary, but if I cannot get it out here, I will lose my mind. I will keep it bottled in like I did during the first two years after his death. This is his story. My story. Our story. This is how he brought me into this world and how I helped to ease him out. One day I plan on writing about those six months, to try and gain an understanding - a new perspective.
From Lisey's Story by Stephen King:
There was a lot they didn't tell you about death, she discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart. It's a secret, Lisey thought, and it should be, because who would ever want to get close to another person if they knew how hard the letting-go part was? In your heart they only die a little at a time, don't they?
Please feel free to visit the online memorial that I created for him. It would mean a great deal to me.
That is perhaps my favorite picture of us. Neither of us knew that Mom had the camera out, let alone that she had taken a picture. It was Christmas Eve and I just felt this urge to give him a hug and a kiss. I loved him so much.
I can't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard I try . . .
Six years ago tonight, a family friend Freddie succumb to the brain cancer that had destroyed not only his memory, but his life. It was a sign of things to come, in retrospect. There had been a fight over dinner. We were a few days shy of the three month "anniversary" of my Grandmother's death. There had been no real time to mourn. No time to grasp what was happening, so long as Dad was still terminal and Mom had cancer. Fear ruled our lives and often caused tension. Mom and I didn't know how to allow ourselves time to grieve - not just over Grandma's death, but for the drastic changes that had taken place that Memorial Day weekend six months before. It was easier to be angry, it was easier to shout and scream as a way of denying the real underlying emotion. What we felt was pure terror. I was losing my hero, my best friend, the light that guided me home. I was losing my father. The only person who had never broken a promise to me. The only person who never raised his hand or voice in anger. He believed in me and told me so every single day. I cannot tell you how many times we said "I love you," even before he was diagnosed with the brain tumor and congestive heart failure. Even before that first damning stroke.
I can recall the dinner (roast beef, gravy, and potatoes), how it tasted, how it smelt. And mostly how much Dad was enjoying it. But Mom and I could not leave well enough alone. The one thing I cannot recall is what prompted the fight. It was just so much easier to scream, to hide the tears. Dad, who so rarely lost his temper, threw his utensils down on the table, shouting angrily, "If you have nothing nice to say don't say anything." It shamed us both and the rest of the meal was eaten in silence. After finishing, I got up and grabbed my mp3 CD player (the last gift given to me by my Grandma) and set about doing the dishes. When that was done, I started gathering up the trash. I was so ashamed at being so selfish. I wasn't the one who was dying. I tried not to make eye-contact, but he had a way of making me look up when I least wanted to. I can still feel the tears in my eyes, threatening at any moment to spill over. He held his arms open wide and I ran to him, praying to God that He'd change His mind and would therefore spare my beloved father. How was I supposed to live without this man? Without my Rock of Gibraltar? I knew that when he died - when he left me for good - he would take a piece of my heart and soul with him.
I ran to those open arms, and like the four year old I had once been, I curled into his lap. I must have crushed him, but you never would have known it by looking in his eyes. I wish I could put into words how beautiful and kind his eyes were. How they twinkled when he was up to his pranks, or when he had a really good joke or story to tell. He held me close and said, "I love you, Pup." I was the only one he had ever given a nickname to. I was his best friend. His confidant. The one person who was always cheering him on from the sidelines. I kissed his forehead and told him that I loved him too.
Why didn't I stay upstairs that night? I could have sat with him just a bit longer. I would have had more time, because I didn't know that the clock was ticking down and the span of his life could no longer be measured in years, months, or weeks. We were counting down the days. And instead of staying upstairs with him, I went downstairs to watch Windtalkers. Halfway into the movie that I wasn't even paying attention to, I heard a crash and without knowing how I knew, I just knew. It was Dad, and it was bad. I sat there, wanting to delay the inevitable. I heard Mom scream and I had no choice but to run upstairs. He was on the floor and it was clear he had suffered another stroke.
As stupid as it sounds, it hit me in the gut right then and there. I had always hoped that the diagnosis was wrong, that somehow Dad would prove them all wrong. He was admitted to what was then North Arundel Hospital. And that was the beginning of what would prove to be a very painful and drawn out end. No matter how much time passes, until I too am lying on my death bed, I will believe that it was all my fault. That I ultimately killed him. If I had stayed up with him, maybe he wouldn't have had a stroke (fools logic, I know). If I hadn't arranged his sheets - messing them up from what he was used to - maybe he wouldn't have had a stroke (even more fools logic). Maybe this, maybe that. But that is only part of the reason that I blame myself.
The doctor - the neurologist I recently stopped seeing in favor of Dr. Oh - wanted to put in a feeding tube. Candy, as Dad's oldest (she's my half-sister) child, was called first. She refused to even talk about it, but agreed to fly in. David was called next. Like Candy, he was in denial, telling us to make the decision ourselves. Scott was next. His answer was swift - put the feeding tube in. Mom, near hysterics, went to dial the phone and I whispered, "Don't I get a say?" She called Dr. Dughly, intent on telling him to put the feeding tube in. I grabbed the phone and said a firm, "NO." Through her tears, she glared at me and took the phone again. This time I grabbed the phone and threw it across the room. "Dad wouldn't want it."
This was the time of the D.C Sniper. I prayed, throughout all of this, that his bullet would find my heart. I would sit in the hospital with Dad, visiting him whenever I could. I insisted that he come home, to die surrounded by his family and those he loved. Hospice literally begged us to put him in Hospice House. When Mom said no, Kathleen (our primary nurse for both Dad and Grandma) tried to talk me into it. I pointed out that Dad and Grandma had wanted one thing - to die at home. He still had the hospital bed from Grandma and so Dad was moved into that room. Someone was always sitting with him. Scott flew out that night and we (Mom, Scott and I) took shifts. I kept a handwritten journal during that bleak time and one day, when I am in a better frame of mind, I will type some of the entries out. Even with Dad dying, some aspects of life continued on regardless of our personal tragedies. I was taking a class at UMBC and couldn't afford to miss it. I sat for the midterm, sure I would fail. The teacher pulled me aside, pointing out that I wasn't my usual smiling, joking self. I told him what was going on and he admonished me for even coming to class. He would have excused me from the test. I explained that some things had to remain normal. We all clung to the status pro.
We put a stereo in Dad's room and played a variety of jazz, Beatles, and bagpipes. I had the night-time shift. I'd sit with him, talking to him, praying to God that he could hear me. The worst thing was having to shift Dad to try and prevent bedsores. It was useless. His body was breaking down and his bedsores became infected. It was one horror after another. All of us were crying. All of us were in pain.
I don't know why, but I was certain Dad would die on my birthday - November 1st. When he didn't, I didn't know whether or not to be relieved. By that time, I wasn't going to work or school. But on November 4th, I went to school. I went to class. Work celebrated (half heartedly) my birthday. I tried to smile. I tried to breathe through the pain. And when the phone rang, I knew. It was Scott. In a pain filled voice, he told me to come home. It was time.
During this time, my Aunt Carole and cousin Denise came down from New York to be with us. While I was at work, Mom took the time to run to the food store with Carole and Denise in tow. Scott was exhausted and went to lay down on the couch. It was during that time, when no one was guarding him, when no one was watching over him, that he slipped away. I drove home from work praying that I wasn't too late. I ran in the front door and saw Scott standing at the top of the stairs. I may complain a lot about Scott, but when we were little kids, he was my best friend. He taught me to ride a bike, to go fishing and crabbing, and how to play baseball. But as we grew up, he seemed not to like me, though why I wasn't sure. When he saw me, he shook his head and I could see the barely hidden pain. I shook my head and walked backwards, as though I could somehow reverse all of this. Scott came down the stairs and grabbed me into a hug. The tears came then, as they are coming now. I tried to scream, but instead heard this horrible keening sound. Then I realized that the sound was coming from me. He just held onto me and somehow kept me standing.
I slowly made my way upstairs. Mom hugged me too, but tried to pull me away from heading into Dad's room. She didn't want me going in there. I shook her off and when in there anyway. I bent down and kissed his forehead. The tears came faster then and it was hard to breathe. He was dressed in a hospital gown and I didn't want to send him out like that. He deserved so much better. I got a washcloth and some warm water and gently cleaned him up. Mom watched from the doorway, unable to make her way into the room. "I have to get him dressed," I cried. I dressed him in his favorite pajama bottoms and the tee-shirt I thought he'd never like but bought as a gag anyway. It loudly proclaimed, "World's Favorite Dad." He loved that shirt. He damn near wore it out. I dressed him, crying over him, wishing my tears could restore the life that had just fled.
October 21, 2002 - November 4, 2002 is a black hole of despair. Of misery. I thought that I would succumb to my pain and would check out of this world - whether through a selfish act or from the sheer weight of the pain I was in. My family was afraid that I wouldn't pull through, never realizing that I would be the one to pull them through. Dad wouldn't want me to cry, but there are so many unanswered questions. Does he know how much I love him? Does he know that he meant the world to me? Was I a good daughter? Was I who he wanted me to be? Was he proud? Is he proud? Does he hear me?
How do you put into words the intense pain felt after the death of someone you love more than life itself? I went into a deep, deep depression. I shut myself off. I stopped seeing color. Everything was in dark hues. The only time I was happy was in those first few nano-seconds after my alarm sounded. Those few seconds offered a reprieve. And then the memories would come flooding back.
Did I do enough? Did I take care him him good enough?
The pain will never heal. Can never heal. He was my whole life, my reason for surviving a childhood best left forgotten. There is still a hole in my heart, but it's scabbed over a bit. I will always mourn the loss of him. He would be tickled pink to know that I am doing the very same job he once did.
What I miss most are our late night conversations. Dad would wake me up, asking, "You up for talking, Pup?" I always was. We'd sit at the kitchen table, eating the snacks Mom attempted to keep hidden. We'd talk about black holes, life on other planets, his life up until he married Mom, and so on. My friends couldn't understand why I would often choose hanging out him over them. Dad and I would play cards or just sit and talk. It was hard for others to understand. I knew from early childhood that my time with Dad would be shorter than the time my friends would have with theirs. I made my decisions by the colleges I chose. I have absolutely no regrets about the time I spent with him. I only wish that there had been moretime.
I know you're up in Heaven, drinking Glen Levit and having Filet Mignon. I know that you have finally been reunited with the parents you loved so dearly. Just know, Daddy, that your Pup will never forget you and will always be considered blessed because I had you in my life. If I had to do it all over again - endure the abuse all over again - I would, knowing that your love would pull me up. Wait for me, Daddy. Please, please, please don't forget about me. I couldn't bear it if I got up there and you weren't waiting for me. Maybe I don't deserve to go to Heaven, God knows the choices I sometimes made weren't the best.
I try not to rehash this every anniversary, but if I cannot get it out here, I will lose my mind. I will keep it bottled in like I did during the first two years after his death. This is his story. My story. Our story. This is how he brought me into this world and how I helped to ease him out. One day I plan on writing about those six months, to try and gain an understanding - a new perspective.
From Lisey's Story by Stephen King:
There was a lot they didn't tell you about death, she discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart. It's a secret, Lisey thought, and it should be, because who would ever want to get close to another person if they knew how hard the letting-go part was? In your heart they only die a little at a time, don't they?
Please feel free to visit the online memorial that I created for him. It would mean a great deal to me.
That is perhaps my favorite picture of us. Neither of us knew that Mom had the camera out, let alone that she had taken a picture. It was Christmas Eve and I just felt this urge to give him a hug and a kiss. I loved him so much.
I can't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard I try . . .