Goodbye

Feb 26, 2008


Good Bye

This past June my father died. As the dutiful son I am I drove to North Carolina to watch with my wife and dog in tow. I was warned before I got there of the state of my father. His cancer was in its last stages and he could no longer talk. The 10 hour drive seemed to simultaneously take forever and not last long enough. It took forever because I was concerned that I would not make it in time to see my father. It didn’t last long enough because I really didn’t want to see my father in the state he was in.
I arrived at my parents’ house at about 2:30 in the afternoon. My father had been taken to the hospital to have his catheter replaced. The spare room in the house had been changed to a hospital room for my father to stay in. The room contained: a hospital bed, a TV, an air mattress, to prevent bedsores, and a table full of liquid pain killers. Morphine and methadone for the pain, and other medicines to help with anxiety. Anxiety medicine is something I never thought of. There must be a lot of anxiety accompanying a slow death.
My father was wheeled in on a stretcher from the ambulance that had dropped him off. I watched as he came into the house. ‘There is no way that is my father.’ I thought to myself. The man who was wheeled into the house was a feeble man of less than 90 pounds, too week to even keep his mouth closed. His eyes, though sleeping, were open slightly. My father never slept with his eyes closed. It was quite creepy as a child to see him in a chair with the TV on, apparently engrossed in the program, only to find out after five minutes of attempted conversation that he was actually sleeping. As the paramedics moved him onto the hospital bed in the converted room I got a glimpse of the tumor. His skeletal body was easily lifted onto the bed. His skin pulled tight against his body. He was skinny, except for the large lump, about the size of a grapefruit, on his liver. I don’t have a weak stomach, but I had to look away.
After he was safely in his bed, the air mattress pumping away and exhaling a strong scent of ozone into the room, I was left alone with him. Alone next to my father, who I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or awake, his eyes half way open, and his breathing erratic. I said I was alone but I was wrong. My dog, who never left my father’s bedside the entire time, sat next to me, quietly, almost like she understood the situation.
That first night we slept in shifts. My mother and myself sleeping four hours each so we could give him the pain medicine when he needed it. The only way he could tell us if he wanted something is by yes or no questions. We would ask questions such as: “Are you in pain? Do you need medicine?” Would be followed by: “Blink once for yes.” The whole process reminded me of the Star Trek episode when commander Pike, in his electronic wheelchair had to answer questions at a trial by beeping once for yes and twice for no. It was thoughts like this that kept me going through the entire process of my father’s death.
The following afternoon the Priest came to visit my father. My father had been a Catholic his entire life. Sometimes devout, sometimes lapse, but in some way he always kept the faith. Myself, I got as far as my first communion before I got yelled at by the woman who taught Catechism for asking too many questions. So my platform is this: I used to be catholic, but I gave it up for Lent when I was 10. That Lenten season has now continued for 23 years. The priest came into the room. Nice enough guy. However he was dressed as if he just came from a renaissance faire. He wore a brown cloak with a rope belt. Brown sandals and had a black pouch on his side and around his neck. I was tempted to yell out “Huzzah!” and order a beer and a turkey leg, but I refrained. The priest was there to give my Father Communion and last rites. I stood over my father’s bed. The Priest, my mother, my wife and, of course, the dog were all there as well. My mother, before anything was said or done, told the priest that I and my wife would not be taking communion. The priest politely said that was fine and opened up the pouch around his neck. In the pouch was a small communion wafer, about the size of a cheerio. A “hostie” if you will.
My dog, being as compassionate and well behaved as she is, is still a dog, and when food is brought into the picture, no matter what denomination, her dog senses kick in. I saw her perk up as he pulled the wafer, “hostie”, bit o’ Jesus, call it what you will, out of his pouch. He almost dropped it. To this my wife said, “We won’t take communion, but I’m sure the dog will.” I laughed, my mother laughed, the dog looked like it agreed and I think I even saw a small smile on my father’s face. The priest didn’t find it too amusing. I imagined as the ceremony was going on, what if he dropped it, and what if the dog ate it. Would we have a priest running around the house after a dog trying to get the wafer back? Would it look like some bad Benny Hill sketch? And what is the Vatican’s position on transubstantiation when it comes to dogs? Would I now have to get my dog baptized? What would she pick for her confirmation name? Like I told you before, it’s thoughts like this that kept me from being an emotional mess the entire time.
Everyone left and I was alone again with my father and the dog. My father had a list of simple things that needed to be done. Things like fix the gutter, and replace the light bulb, and reset the computer so it could be sold. My father was an IBMer for 37 years. Those who had parents in the IBM Corporation understand how borderline compulsive they can get at times. I finished his list of, what I called, “pre-twilight chores.” I sat next to him, he was awake. “I have done all the things on the list.” I told him and listed them off one by one. “It’s ok. Everything is taken care of. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” A raspy noise came out of his mouth. “Is there something else you need me to do?” I asked. With more strength than I had seen him have for the two days I had been there he blinked his eyes. Clenching them tightly and opening them again. “What do you need?” I asked. Knowing he couldn’t tell me, I suddenly felt stupid and helpless at the same time. How can you get an answer from a man who can’t talk? I told him everything will be taken care of and he doesn’t have to worry about a thing. “Just rest.” I said. And walked out of the room.
About four hours later the dog walked out of the room. Looked at my mother, my wife and myself in the kitchen drinking coffee and then looked back into the room. All of us knew what happened but being the repressive human beings we were we had to ask. “What wrong girl?” Mentally I followed that up with: “Has Timmy fallen down the well?” My father had dies. Death’s messenger was a two year old golden retriever named Callie.
I still wonder what my father wanted from me. I know I’ll never find out.