We misread her. Her name was Mary, and she seemed curt and disinterested. At one point, my mom had said "she's just here to collect a paycheck."
But on that night, it became clear why Mary was so quiet and seemingly distant- it's how she was able to do her job day in and day out.
I stood in the family area while my mom talked on her cell phone, waiting for her to make eye contact with me so I could confirm that she was, in fact, talking to my aunt. As my mom avoided eye contact so she could focus on the conversation, I decided to go put down the bags I had brought with me that contained a change of clothes and some bodywash for her. I turned and looked down the hallway, and saw my brother talking to Miss Mary at her station. When he noticed me standing there, he took very deliberate steps towards me and mouthed the words "I think he's gone."
It shouldn't have been a surprise. I knew it was coming. I just... didn't think it would happen like that. As he wrapped his arms around me, I turned towards the room and he said "are you sure you want to go in there?" I said yes as I reached for the doorknob. Miss Mary and the nurse went in with us, to confirm what was absolutely apparent from the moment I walked into that room.
My dad was gone.
I know I set down the bags at some point, but my memory indicates that they just somehow magically disappeared because I don't recall putting them down. My brother held me in his arms while I sobbed, until the nurse realized that someone needed to let my mom know what was transpiring before she walked into the room and was greeted with grief. It was pretty clear that I was in no position to be the one to tell her, so Miss Mary walked over to me to comfort me while my brother went to deliver the news. Without hesitation, she wrapped me in her arms and rubbed my back, and said those words. "You think you're ready, but you never are. It's never any easier." She continued to just hold me and rub my back while I sobbed, and handed me a tissue, I think. I suppose the tissue didn't magically appear in my hand, but I also know that tissues had become rotating tenants in my pockets that week.
The next few hours were a numb blur. We sat in a small room, making phone calls, sending texts, and crying. I remember sitting in the candlelit chapel, quietly crying by myself and wondering what was supposed to happen next. My oldest brother arrived and we greeted him at the front near the chapel. I remember I was shaking, and couldn't tell if I was cold or if it was from emotion. We all went back into the room together and began gathering our belongings. That part felt so weird, as we methodically packed everything up while my dad's empty vessel laid on the bed. We took our turns saying goodbye, and I kissed his cheek one last time.
Of course no one can prepare you for the death of a loved one, and no one can prepare you to watch a loved one die. I've been fortunate in a way, because my experiences with grief and loss have been few and far between but it also means that losing my dad completely flipped my world upside down. There's this thing that happens when you don't experience death up-close, and it makes you less aware of what death really means and what it looks like. But you don't even realize that, until it suddenly changes and you find yourself thinking about a lot of "what-ifs" that had never crossed your mind before.
But what I hadn't expected was the days spent grappling with my own emotions and thought processes because I never envisioned myself being caught in between wanting one more day with my dad and wanting it to all be over. And that sounds harsh. I certainly didn't want my dad to die... there were countless times that I screamed at the universe to just give me my dad back and make him well again. My heart was waging war against itself because I couldn't bear to see my dad go and I couldn't bear to see my dad suffer any longer and there's no way to reconcile those two things. I was clinging to every moment of being able to hold his hand while praying that he wouldn't suffer any more. And that, folks, is the worst position to be in. I don't think it gets any more horrible than that moment.
I've heard that it sucks to watch someone die from cancer but I didn't know the extent of it until it slowly, then rapidly, destroyed my dad and took him from me forever. I felt like I had lost him in May when the cancer started to take hold, and then I felt like we got most of him back around July when he started to get a little better. By the end of August, my hope was fading and fear was taking over. By September, I knew we wouldn't have another Christmas with him.
We did have one last beautiful moment with him the day before he died. He had started having panic attacks when he would wake up confused and in pain, and the nurses and doctors were continually adding and adjusting his medications to keep him calm and comfortable. The tumor on the side of his face had started rapidly spreading down his neck and pinching some nerves which caused horrible pain in his arm. A massage therapist came by and massaged his arm for him, and he fell asleep and rested calmly for the first time in a while. But it was short-lived. After another panic attack later that afternoon, he began falling back asleep. My mom was holding his hand and said "Bill, you've got quite a gathering here... I wish you could see. The kids are all here... you are so loved." At that point, my dad looked right at me as I stood at the end of his bed and I could tell he could see me (he had started sleeping with his eyes open). He then looked to the side and saw my brothers and sister-in-law and said "I love you all so much..." By then, it had become nearly impossible for him to speak because the tumor on his jaw had paralyzed that half of his face. We surrounded his bed, each of us laying our hands on him and telling him we loved him through tears and sobs. He put his palms together, raised his hands to his face, and said "God, please take care of my family." That was the one and only time I've ever heard my dad pray. He immediately fell back asleep, and slipped into somewhat of a coma. We thought that was it, and that he'd just slowly slip away from that point forward.
I sat next to his bed for a while that evening, holding his hand while we all watched the Lightning game. I could feel him squeezing my hand every so often and at first I thought it was only reflexes, until I noticed him doing it after someone would say something or if I'd squeeze his hand first. I looked at my mom and said "I hope he's not in any pain right now and just can't tell us." My mom said he couldn't feel anything anymore. And then he squeezed my hand again. About 5 minutes later, after the hockey game went into overtime, he choked and gasped and began panicking again. It took a while to get him calm. During that time, the Lightning scored their game-winning goal and we let him know what happened. Through his panic and confusion, he softly clapped his hands. I can't help but sadly smile when I think of that moment... of course my dad would awaken from a coma-like state to find out the outcome of the game. Of course. The nurses got him comfortable again, and I went to my parents' house to get some sleep. My mom said he awakened one more time that night and didn't know where he was. She told him he was in Hospice and that he had cancer, and that it was okay for him to go now. He asked "I fought a good fight?" and my mom told him "yes, you fought a good fight."
The next day was rough. As his body was shutting down, he began choking on phlegm that was accumulating in his throat. About 10 days before he passed, he began throwing up after his second immunotherapy treatment. From that day forward, he was unable to eat or drink much of anything. Even a few sips of water to take medications would make him feel full and despite being horribly thirsty, he just wasn't able to drink much. The doctor said the tumors on his liver were affecting his appetite and making him feel like he was too full when he wasn't. So after 10 days of barely eating or drinking, the dehydration was creating some issues with his throat. His breathing was slow and labored, and coupled with gurgling and it was very, very difficult to witness. He'd start to choke, which would startle him awake, and he'd say "help me, help me" until he'd slip back under again. I found myself becoming frantic for someone to help him because logically when someone is in that state, someone is supposed to help him. But obviously I knew they couldn't. I excused myself to go outside and talk to my now-fiance for a bit. When I came back to the room, they had turned him on his side and laid him flat, and he was finally breathing better. Still slow and labored, but he was no longer gurgling or choking. It was then that I was forced to stare down the evil that had done this to us- the tumor that had formed on his jaw (under the skin between his jaw and his ear) was now enormous-about the size of a navel orange- and had pushed through the skin. With him laying on his side, I was no longer able to avoid it. It was what was taking my father from me.
I left later that night to go get my mom a change of clothes and some soap. She hadn't originally intended on staying overnight the night before, but my dad's rapidly deteriorating condition and panic attacks made her decide to stay. We knew she'd stay the night again, and when my brother went to the house to get a few things, I thought about asking him to get some clothes for her and for some reason felt very compelled to do it myself. I chalked it up to not wanting to make him go through my mom's underwear drawer. I also just felt like I needed to leave for a little bit. When I was at the house, I found myself taking way more time than I had intended to. My aunt called the house phone, but I decided it was a call I wasn't able to handle and let it go to voicemail. I figured I'd let my mom know to call her when I got back to Hospice. It was about the time that I pulled back into the parking lot that my father departed this earth.
The nurse said that she sees it happen like that all the time- a patient will wait for a certain person or people to be out of the room before they pass. I know for certain that my dad waited for my mom to leave the room. Whether or not he also waited for me to go, I don't know, but knowing my dad he wouldn't have wanted me there either. I don't think he was able to fully let go until he couldn't feel my mom's presence with him anymore. He passed while my brother quietly sat with him.
And so began the next battle, as the pain mixed with a sense of relief and then I felt like a horrible human being for feeling any kind of relief that someone I love that much was gone. Of course I wasn't relieved that he was dead but I was relieved that he wasn't suffering anymore, but I still found myself struggling with my own emotions more than I ever have in my life.
There's no way to quantify grief and there's no one route that's "easiest". The last 6 months of my dad's life were horribly difficult for all of us, because watching him suffer was torture in its own way. When the cancer broke his back in May, I thought we were about to lose him right then and there and I begged the universe to just give me back my dad. And I feel like we got that gift in a way, because the first chemo drugs worked and then he began recovering from his back surgery. I remember sitting at the house one day when the phone rang. "It's David" my mom said, and my dad answered the phone from the other room. When I heard my dad say "Hello?" I began to cry, because I realized that I had my dad back, even if it was just for a short time. The chemo and surgery had made his voice scratchy for a bit, but he finally sounded like himself again. His sense of humor was mostly back, and he was smiling again. I will forever be grateful for that time, because I soaked it all up as much as I could, knowing it may never happen again. It was a delicate balance, to try to remain positive and hopeful but also be realistic and try to enjoy as much as I could with him, knowing that the odds were still against him. We had one last birthday party for him. I wrote him a letter to tell him how much I loved him and how I have always been grateful for everything he's ever done for me. I needed him to know, above anything else, that he was a great dad and a successful parent, and that I am who I am today because of him. I saw him pretty much every week between the time he was diagnosed and when he passed, and it's time I will always appreciate having with him.
I read a beautiful metaphor for grief, and my summary will do it no justice. But it compared grief to a shipwreck... suddenly you're being battered by the waves and struggling to just keep your head above water. You cling to the bits of wreckage floating in the surf, and each piece reminds you of the beautiful boat you once had that is no more. The waves crash down on you, one after another, with barely any time to catch your breath in between. You don't fight it, you just try to survive it. And eventually, the waves come less frequently and you have some time in between to catch your breath. They become less and less frequent, and less and less intense. Sometimes you can see them coming and prepare a little. But they never stop coming. They just get less frequent, and you learn how to ride the waves a little better.
Experiencing this grief while being a single mother has added an extra element of awfulness to the whole thing. I know my dad went through it when his mom died when I was six... I remember lying in bed, crying and unable to sleep. He came and knelt down next to my bed. For some reason, I vividly remember the nightlight illuminating my room, as my dad tried to comfort me. He said "just think about a carousel and try to get some sleep." I now have a better appreciation of that moment, as I've tried comforting my grieving child while I try to handle my own emotions.
I miss him every day. I have cried every day since he passed two months ago, usually on my drive to work. Something inevitably reminds me of him, and my heart fills with the all-too-familiar pain as my eyes well up with warm tears. I try to keep my tears from streaming down my face so that I don't show up to work with streaks in my makeup, but some mornings there's no use in trying to prevent it. There is a hole in my heart that will never be patched. My dad was a great man, and the stories I've heard since his passing have only further confirmed that for me. Everyone knew him for his great sense of humor, contagious smile, happy-go-lucky attitude, and the warmth he radiated. We all knew his laugh well- if something especially tickled him, he'd scrunch up his face, squint his eyes, and shrug his shoulders. The silent laugh was always the best. He had a hot Irish temper, but was quick to apologize and never too prideful to admit when he was wrong. He'd buy me flowers for my birthday every year when I was a child, and would do the same for my mom. He'd find little ways to remind us that we were important and special to him. He wasn't perfect, but he was a damn good father to me. He taught me the value of hard work and sacrifice, and there was never a moment in my life that I felt unimportant to him. He'd come home from a long day at work and would kneel next to my bed and talk me through whatever issue I was facing that felt so heavy to me on that particular day. It was always something seemingly small... I'd get picked on for not wearing makeup or shaving my legs yet, and my dad would tell me that the other girls needed makeup to look pretty, but I was beautiful without it. Or I'd feel like life was unfair and would lament over typical preteen drama, and there he'd kneel, listening to my every word. It was those moments that meant the world to me.
In 12 days I will spend my first Christmas Eve without him. I'm prepared for it to be an emotional couple of days, of course. Christmas Eve was always filled with tradition and wonderful memories throughout my entire childhood. It was on Christmas Eve in 2011 that I watched intently as my dad read his card from me, announcing that he was going to have another grandbaby. I will never forget him looking at me over the top of his reading glasses, and saying "REALLY?" in complete disbelief while everyone else was excitedly unwrapping their presents and having no idea what was going on. I nodded my head, and noticed the tears forming in his eyes. Up until I sat on the couch with him the day after his PET scan results in April, the only times I could remember seeing my dad cry were when he was crying tears of joy. Those are the memories I will cling to.
