Rowhouse Logic - Breathtaking Inanity

Thanks to my friend Chris, who has bravely provided me with posting rights on his blog.

I planned to begin my new blogging journey with a somewhat controversial piece on abortion rights and new rhetoric that appears to be developing around that discussion. I think we’ll save that for the second post.

I lost my father a month ago. What a weird way to say that someone died. “I lost my father”. “Well, where did you put him?” It just sounds like a bad punch line to a worse joke. The vocabulary around death in our society is very weird indeed. I never quite understood what it meant to “pass on”. I probably feel most comfortable with the most simple and honest terminology, my dad died.

The diagnosis of metastatic lung cancer was made only one short month before he died. He’d been having some muscle pain in the area under his ribs for a few months, but the family doctor was treating him with physical therapy. The doctor probably should have suspected something more harmful, but knowing my father, I’m certain the doctor heard few complaints. I don’t blame him for not diagnosing the cancer sooner.

By the time we got a diagnosis, there was a 4 cm inoperable mass in his lung, a number of lesions on his liver, and a spot of cancer obstructing his vision. My very ill father was put on a rigorous schedule of medical tests and doctor’s appointments that would exhaust a healthy person. He did not see an oncologist until less than two weeks before he died. The cancer couldn’t be treated, and for that I’m glad. He suffered significantly for a short time, but he didn’t have to live through the misery of radiation, chemotherapy, and all the resultant problems.

I last saw my dad alive on New Year’s weekend. He wasn’t himself, he was sick, weak, irritable, tired, but he had just enough energy to scold me for not offering my boyfriend a piece of the kiwi that I was eating. I’m 38 years old and I guess it’s comforting to know that to him, I’d always be his little girl and would never grow too old to be treated like one. My boyfriend told me that he and my dad had a discussion about dying. Maybe he found it easier to talk about it with someone he barely knew. I tried to be there for him and I think he felt more comfortable talking to me about his illness than my mother. When I first heard the words, “mass on the liver”, I knew my dad wasn’t long for this world. My mom, on the other hand, was holding out for a miracle. I don’t think he talked much about dying with my mother. But in his final weeks, he taught her how to clean her CPAP machine, how to fill it, and in his own way, he prepared her for the eventuality.

I’d planned to go home the weekend of January 14th. I always left the city around 8:00PM to avoid the remnants of rush hour traffic. That day, my boyfriend and I grabbed a quick bite to eat at a taqueria around the corner from my house. We were probably 1/2 hour later than usual. My cell phone rang about 9:15 PM and it’s my mom, telling me that my dad is in bad shape. He hadn’t opened his eyes all day and hadn’t said a word either.

I arrive at home around 10:15 and my father was already dead. Mom didn’t let the undertakers come for the body. She knew I would want to see him. Hospice had set him up with a hospital bed in the living room, so that’s where he was when I arrived. My neighbors were there, as was the minister from my parent’s church and another close family friend.

My emotions were sort of on hold as the surrealness of the situation struck me. My father is lying there, looking not only like the angel of death had taken him, but also looking like the barber of death had paid a visit. I guess his barber had been kind enough to make a house call that week, but my dad’s normally lush, white hair had been chopped off by what appeared to be hedge clippers. And then I touched him. His hand still felt warm, but his chest was so cool. I laid my head on him and cried for the first time that night. And then it occurred to me. I’d been thinking all day about what I wanted to tell my dad before he died, and because I was hungry and maybe a little selfish, I missed my chance. I can’t beat myself up over this and I also know that I’m better off to have seen my dad when he was still a little bit of his former self, but I can’t control the periodic pangs of guilt that bothered me that night and will probably haunt me for a very long time.

I don’t know if he can hear me when I cry for him or if he goes to the great internet café in the sky and reads this blog, but I just wanted to tell him that he’s my hero and my role model.

I love you, Dad.

Always, your little girl,

Missy

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 16th, 2005 at 11:46 pm and is filed under Freshly-baked Cookies. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.