chapter XVII

Dad, seven months later

Status: 8:41PM; baby in bed for about an hour now.  Chicken stock on the stove (just cuz).  Pasta makings also on the stove (waiting for the husband to get home to truly fire that up).  East India Pale Ale.

So what to talk about?  How about Dad.  Seven months later.  Seven months since he died. 

I will admit, I feel weird writing about this because some readers might say "enough already!"  Or something like that.  But this is my blog and I will write what I want to (just had to say that).

So what is it like, to be 37 and be done with having your dad alive in your life?

First off, people are extraordinarily gracious for the first several weeks.  Then, nothing.  They are not rude, but nobody really asks "Hey, how are you doing with having lost your dad?"  I know that people would listen if I brought it up, but sometimes it's nice to be asked.  I am not bitter about this - I am not sure I knew before this that it's nice to have someone ask about it.

You know that flash you get when you remember to call someone?  I get that.  And in an instant, I say "oh right.  can't do that anymore."  it does not hurt in a painful way; rather, in a teary way.  I just miss him.  Plain and simple.  The night of the six month anniversary was bad.  I relived the evening as the time approached when he had died.  I am not excited to get to the one year point, but I am excited to get beyond it.

I have an unusual interest in death and what it's like to die.  Don't get all crazy now, I am not interested in it for bad reasons - just really want to know what happens.  I think he knew.  He said some things that night to my mom and to the nurse that suggest he knew.  He did a few things that suggest he knew.  We will never know I suppose, until, well, you know.

I found I wanted to know everything about him.  I had so many unanswered questions.  those questions remain.  if your parents are alive, get a book titled Legacy and ask lots of those questions.  document your time.  you will be happy you have it later.  We have a few recordings of his voice.  We have 30 years of sermons.  I am not ready to let any of those items go.  We have tons (I do mean TONS) of his handwritten notes.  I treasure those.  I carry something with me at all times that he carried with him. 

I still cry.  It does not last long, so if you are talking to me and I cry don't be alarmed.  It's not that dramatic.  Just a few tears here and there.

For the most part I am increasingly grateful to have what we have - notes, recordings, memories. It's a duller pain and in some ways, more wonderful than I imagined.  It's something I choose to allow - I don't fight it.  I like remembering him.  I love talking about him.  I have lots of laughs about him.  I can still hear his voice in my head.  I have not had one of those experiences people say they have when they "sense" someone.  I have not stepped into a church since he died.  Not sure I can go there yet.  I remember vividly the hymn that played at his funeral and I hum it to myself often.  I was bummed the other day when I heard a wonderful piece of music which I could not identify...it was at a time like that when I would have called him and asked what it was.  Like a game...he would have had the composer, the work, the pianist and maybe after a minute or two, the precise recording for me.  That was my dad.

I am going to write more about him over time.  It helps me remember things that I want to share with my daughter.  And, for me, it's simply nice to remember. 

What it's Like to Lose a Parent

For about 20 years, I had wondered "what will it be like."  Specifically, what will it be like when my father dies.  I never even considered that my mother might go first.  Thankfully, she did not.  She is alive and thriving.  But Dad, well, he was like a cat as he tricked death several times starting when I was about 15 years old.

So I wondered, what will it be like to get The Call.  There were moments when I thought he was dying and he did not.  In one such moment I was there right with him.  I was panicked and calm and not thinking of anything more than being right there.  And then, grateful.  Eternally grateful when he came back to consciousness.  That was last April when I took our new daughter down to see him and he had what he liked to call "An incident" with his heart.  There was another time in I think 2004...maybe 2005.  I had to get on a plane when he was unconscious.   That was pretty terrible.  In that instance, I was pretty useless and paralyzed.  My then boyfriend, now husband, had to pack for me.  I was visibly upset and unable to manage tears the whole flight.  I landed and learned that the minute my flight took off, he had stabilized.  Those 45 minutes in the air, in limbo, were some of the worst moments of my life thus far.

And then of course there was the actual event, just over two months ago.  He had been home from the hospital for about a week.  We had all been there the weekend before to spend time with him.  Hospice had taken over in our house, and that was a god send.  I talked to him around noon that day.  He and my mother were on their way to one of his favorite places, The Olive Garden.  He wasn't eating much those days but on that day, he had a hankering for some soup and breadsticks.  When I spoke to him that was the last thing we talked about, how he and my mother were going to go out and he was going to get some soup.  He said "Let's talk later."

My mother called me later that day just to mention that she had spoken to the funeral home to get things in order.  I asked if she thought the need was imminent.  Always the planner, she said she did not know but wanted to be prepared.  Interesting timing.  I think she knew.

Later that evening, my father, mother and the hospice nurse sat down to dinner.  He offered up a toast to them, thanking them for all of their help.  This was odd.  I am not sure I remember him initiating a lot of toasts, but on this night he did.  He had some hamburger, one of his favorite meals.  Only a few bites.  Then my mother made him an old favorite, a chocolate milkshake.  He drank the whole thing. 

Several hours later he was experiencing restlessness.  This is a sign.  It's even somewhat official, from what I understand, Terminal Restlessness.  My mother and I were keeping in close touch that night on the phone.  Things continued for the worse.  I won't go into the details.  Near the end - we did not yet know it was the end - my daughter who is a pretty sound sleeper all of a sudden started dramatically crying in her room.  This was around 11:45PM.  She had been asleep since 7PM.  I went to calm her.  A bit later, the phone rang again.  My husband answered the call.  I was in with Avery but I heard him on the phone.  I knew this was The Call.  I took the phone and my mother said she thought this was it.  She put the phone up to his ear so I could speak to him.  I said a few things - things you might imagine one says at that moment.  I did not hear him but apparently he was alive, yet approaching death.  Hearing they say is the last thing to go.  After only a few seconds of this my mother got back on the phone and said she thought he was gone.  It was 12:05AM.  I told her I would call my sister.

Deep breath.  That is what I did.  I stood in my living room and took a very deep breath.  That was quite a moment.  My husband came out with my daughter - and then took her back to her room.  She calmed down right away, right around the very moments after he died.  I called my sister.

And then I felt an incredible sense of calm.  Calm like I had not felt in years.  All anxiety about pain and suffering was gone.  He had finally found peace.  And for me, his daughter, that was joyful.  I know it sounds odd to say - surely, I was not happy.  But I was calm.  I thought I would be non-functional.  Not at all.  I had traded anxiety, fear for him, hurt for him and concern for him (and much for my mother too, by the way, who was a saint through the entire 20 year health management process - that is another story) for loss.  Big, deep, fundamental loss.  But not entirely.  I did not and do not feel emptiness.  I thought I would.

I miss him a million times every single day.  I cry.  I have so many unanswered questions.  But I don't fear for him anymore, and I must say, there is a lot to be said for that.  He lived an amazing life, and I had an amazing time with him.  I can still see him and hear him.  I have no regrets about my relationship with him and I don't think he would either (though I am sure he would still say I should go to church more often).  We spent never enough time, but it was excellent time.  I have a lot to hold onto.  And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Untitled.

Well...my friend was wrong.  My dad died last week, October 25th, at 12:05AM.  For the last week, I have had about a million thoughts going through my head.  This experience, losing a parent, is extraordinary and worth significant reflection.  It may be something I write about.  I am not sure yet.  I am a person who likes to write, and I have missed it this week.  But this is a post I don't really know how to start. 

So rather than start, I thought I would jot down a few notes about a few things I have on my mind. 

• Atheism

• Does God exist

• What happens when we die

• Why did he type a list of shampoos?

• I am glad he voted

• I am sad he did not see the outcome.

• I never thought he would see me or my sister get married.  He married both of us.

• I never thought he would meet my child.  Damn it, he met her and baptized her.

• I was out of "I never..." thoughts when it came to my dad.  He did them all.  I wonder if he was out of "Maybe I will never..." thoughts as well.

• How will my mom deal with this?

• Maybe she will have new worlds opened to her.

• Did he hear me when I was on the phone with him in the last moments?  When my mother held the phone to his ear while I had my last chance to speak to him.  We don't know if he heard.

• If you believe in heaven, dad is now chatting with Rachmaninoff, Toscanini, FDR, others. 

• I don't know if I believe in heaven.  I really want to more than ever now.

• The colors of this autumn have never seemed to vivid to me as they have this week.  Autumn was his favorite season, and mine too.

Also, he never really explained to me why he converted from Catholicism to Episcopalian.  And he did the biggest conversion of all - becoming an Episcopal priest.  I asked.  He always said "Oh, I will tell you that when we have a lot more time."

Hmmmm.

[Imagine a big sigh and a long silence here.]

So that barely scratches the surface.  I had my first moment tonight when I thought "Oh I will call my dad." and realized I can't. 

People say I look like him.  I wish I saw that.  I do know that he and I could almost always predict the others' thoughts.  But when I ask myself, "What would he be saying now?  What would he tell me to do?" I am coming up a little empty.  He would probably say the usual "keep on living" things but there would be something else.  Something uniquely Tom Dixon.  And damn it, I don't know what that would be.  I need that, and I can't get it.  

I suppose that was one thing that made him great - that he was not so predictable and that he would have that something special to say in a time like this.  So perhaps I can hold onto that - whatever THAT would have been.