A year ago, my father drew his last breath. I hate saying that he passed away but to say he died seems so harsh and blunt. I remember my Facebook status that day was 4 little words with colossal meaning, “My Dad is dead”. When I got the news around 11 pm, I was in bed holding an almost 6 week old Orion. Was I nursing him, was he sleeping, was I sleeping? I don’t remember, but he went in the bassinet and Patrick sat on the edge of the bed and told me that my dad was gone. I cried, he held me, and he cried. I remember calling my brother in Japan and being surprised by my calmness.
That day was a Sunday and we were going to make the trip up
on Tuesday after my 6 week post pregnancy check up at the obstetrician’s
office. My Dad went into the hospital
the previous Monday and on Friday they were talking about sending him to a
rehab facility. He had lung cancer and
they just discovered stomach cancer, two primary locations. Sunday they were talking about hospice. My cousin called me and said I should get up
there as soon as possible. I couldn’t
drop everything, I couldn’t go without Patrick and our dogs needed to be looked
after and Orion was so little to be going into a hospital and I had my
appointment. No one knew he would be
leaving us so quickly.
My last memory of my father was a phone call the day before
he died. I had made him a photo album of
his grandchildren and our trip to Japan and mailed it to him so he could look
through it during the long hours of chemotherapy. When he went into the hospital, I had asked
my aunt to pick it up from his apartment and take it to him. When we talked on the phone, he said he
didn’t want to look at it and didn’t want to leave it in his hospital
room. When he spoke, he sounded tired and weak. He hadn’t been eating for most of the past
week and I tried to encourage him to eat something, anything. If everything tastes bad then it doesn’t
really matter what you eat but you need to eat to be strong, to survive. I remember being mad and frustrated and
wanting to be there to force feed him and yell at him. Was he giving up?
The last time I saw my father, he had come down for a visit
when Orion was 2 or 3 weeks old. This
was his second visit. It had been a
rough visit and there was one day when my Dad hardly got out of bed and did not
even see Orion at all. When he left, I was
sitting in bed nursing the baby. It must
have been around 2 or 3 in the morning.
My Dad liked to do the 4 hour drive early in the morning before traffic
when no one else was on the road. Dad
gave me a kiss and kissed Orion good bye.
If I had known that would be the last time I would see my father, maybe
I would have put the baby down and hugged him forever. My dad had such wonderful hugs. Even though it is my last memory of seeing my
father, it is a happy one. He was not
suffering. He was happy and proud of me
and his grandson.
My dad had been after me to have a baby for a while. He loved babies and his 2 grandkids lived
half a world away. I remember when we
went to Japan, he had hoped we would find out I was pregnant during the trip. But the opposite happened and I learned that
buying tampons can be hard when you don’t read Japanese. I ended up with the smallest tampons for the
lightest flow. Anyway, my dad was super
excited when we told him I was pregnant.
At our baby shower in March, he looked good but a bit skinny.
For months before Orion was born I was asking my dad when he would visit and how long he wanted to stay. That he would have dibbs on the guestroom and that we had bought a nice new bed so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the air mattress. He kept dragging his feet and I didn’t know why. Six weeks before Orion was born, Dad told me he might have lung cancer and had been dealing with getting a diagnosis since January. So I guess that was why he forgot my birthday? He didn’t want to tell me because he didn’t want to worry me. He also didn’t want me telling the rest of the family. So why was he telling a very pregnant me now?
I am glad he did tell
me because I understood why he wasn’t making plans to come down. I was scheduled for an induction so we knew
when I would be going into the hospital.
That week I asked him when he would be coming down and he said he was
waiting for test results. Orion was born
and my dad was not there. During
delivery I wanted my mom more than anything but she had been gone for close to
6 years. After Orion was born, I wanted my Dad to see this adorable baby boy. My Dad was only 4 hours away and was missing
the chance to hold his grandson at his smallest. We got home from the hospital and again I
asked him when he was coming. He said he
was still waiting for test results. I
told him that if it was cancer he would have to start chemo and then he really
wouldn’t be able to travel. He had seen
my mom go through breast cancer so he had an idea as to what he could expect.
After hearing that he
would be waiting to come down yet again, I had a bit of a break down. I called my mother’s sister and cried, trying
to talk through tears. I wanted my dad
and was scared he might never meet my son.
She called my dad and gave him a good earful and he was on our doorstep
the next morning. His first visit was
unannounced, we heard him outside around 6 am when Orion was a week old. Dad felt silly for waiting so long to come
down and stressing me out. But there he
was, holding my son and everything was better.
My Dad had been afraid to get in our way but we wanted him
there and his great big gnarly hands to be there. We didn’t expect him to cook, or clean, or
change diapers. His only job was to hold
the baby which can be such a big help with a newborn. It really was amazing to see my tiny little
son in my father’s enormous hands. I
remember him telling me that as difficult as this time is that it really is the
best.
A few months after my Dad died, I got a call from his rheumatologist. It was nice that she called to tell me how
much she had enjoyed looking after my father.
She went on to tell me how excited he had been for the arrival of his
newest grandbaby. Apparently, he had
been planning to stay with us for a few months after the baby arrived. This was something I didn’t know and wish I
hadn’t known because it didn’t happen and never would.
I had no parent left to tell me how old I was when I started
teething, or how old I was when I weaned.
No parent left to tell me that my son looked just like me at that
age. Most people say Orion looks like
Patrick but I can see myself in his face and see my brother in him too. He would not have my parents spoiling
him. My dad would not be there to tell
him ridiculous stories. My mom would not be knitting him hats and booties like
she had for so many other babies. Orion
will never really know my parents but he will grow up hearing stories about
them and seeing their photos.
This past weekend, some of my family got together in my
father’s memory. I brought up a photo album I made after my
mother died which was focused on my Dad’s side of the family. I made it from the photos and scraps I found
when I was cleaning out her room. I also
brought up a new photo album filled with pictures, papers, and scraps that we
found when we cleaned out my dad’s apartment.
It is funny what people hold on to and what you can learn from those
treasured photos and scraps of paper. My
favorite thing about these old bits of paper is seeing my parent’s handwriting.
I found letters and postcards I had written my father as
well as cards and arts and crafts from early childhood. I found a police report from June 29, 1972
for my dad’s stolen 1968 Mustang. There
were gun permits with pictures of my father in his 20’s who I almost did not
recognize. Then there was a police
property report which listed 13 quart bottles of beer, 8 Schmidts and 5
Ballentine. It went on to say that my
dad was slated with “corrupting morals of minors and illegal possession”. It was from February 28, 1964 when my dad was
almost 20 years old. Then there was a
letter from November 16, 1998 asking for this incident to be removed from his
record.
These were all things that I knew about my father. Now they are safe and contained in a photo
album so his grandchildren will be able to glimpse into his life. I have told Patrick that if the house catches
on fire, we get the dogs and baby out but we must also grab the photo
albums. We have a lot of photo albums,
they are heavy and take up a lot of space but they are my most treasured possessions. They are the history of my family that no
longer exists. The memory is alive
within their bindings and I hope they will outlive me and be passed down to
future generations.
So today on my father’s death day, I remember him. I can hear his voice in my head reading
Annabell Lee to me. Hear his laugh which
he gave so freely. I can see his gnarly
hands and scruffy beard. I remember him
being my teddy bear when I was little. I
used to ride on his shoulders and use his bald spot as a bongo. I remember when he taught me how to paint my
nails, he painted his thumbnail pink.
Then we went grocery shopping and the cashier was amused by his big pink
thumb. We always made a game out of
trying to make the cashier laugh. I
remember how worried he was went I was backpacking around Europe, alone, for 4 ½
months. Today I ate onion pie and
thought of him. I will always be able to
feel my father’s love and I have no doubt that he never questioned mine.
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