The death of my father has been a much harder experience than I expected. There have been times when I think that I have to call him to tell him something, or to get his opinion. I am certain that this specific thing has happened to my brothers, as well. Especially my oldest brother, Darrell. He used to talk to our father several times a day. He often wouldn't make a move in his life without first consulting with him. This feeling comes in waves, and today has been one of those days.
What's strange is this feeling, to have to share with him, happened even while he was in the hospital, dying. In three days, it will be two years ago that he went into the hospital. We were at his house and over the course of two hourse, he began turning blue. It didn't take much convincing to get him out of the house and on the way to the emergency room. Six weeks later, we had to make a decision to withdraw care, and as I walked up and down the halls of the ICU, I thought to myself, "I should call dad to see what he thinks we should do."
It's funny, most times I went to my father to ask his opinion on things, he almost always told me it was up to me to make the decision. I think he didn't want to get blamed for potentially steering me in the wrong direction. So, I often stopped asking what he thought. Yet now I find myself wishing he was here to talk with even just to hear him tell me to make up my own mind.
After he died, my mind began playing cruel tricks on me. I had trouble sleeping to the point that my doctor prescribed Xanax to help me. I couldn't sleep through the night without having what can only now be described as a panic attack. I'd drift off to sleep, but find myself suddenly waking (something I have done for years). This was different though. My heart would be racing at 130-140 beats per minute. I know this because I have one of those watches that runners wear. The one with the heart monitor. When I work out, my heart rate is between 130-150+. This was happening when I was sleeping. The medication didn't seem to work for me, so I didn't take it very long.
If I was lucky enough to get to REM sleep, I'd dream about my dad. I'd dream he was still alive, or I'd dream that I had to perform some kind of activity to bring him back to life. The problem was, when I woke up, I couldn't remember what the activity was that would resurrect him.
I wish it were that simple.
I did welcome the visits from my dad in my dreams, even trying to will him into my subconscious before I fell asleep. But mind games are unfair and unsettling.
I also had (or maybe I should say have) some guilt associated with his death. It stems from taking my dad for granted while he was alive. It stems from wishing I tried harder to be a better son. It stems from forcing guilt trips on him for hitting me when I was a child, or for telling him I wanted more from him when I was a child.
I spent more time with my dad, my mother, and my brothers over the course of a month when he was ill than I have since we all lived together in the 80's. That's a shame (and a blessing, I guess) because there would be times when I could not see him for weeks (when he was alive). Tragedy, it seems, is designed to bring people closer yet tear them apart when the result is so final.
I was able to make my peace with my father before he died. It was strange because he was strange. He had been on a ventilator for 10 days, and I swore that if he was able to get off of it and have a conversation with me, I would tell him how I felt. I got that chance, but there had been some obvious deterioration with his mind in those 10 days. He wasn't the same. He was talking about things that didn't make sense.
He talked about an apartment he kept over a K-Mart. He talked about having to pay the rent there, and wanting to get out of the hospital so he could watch TV there. He spoke so convincingly about this apartment that I began to doubt whether or not he secretly had one. But he didn't.
He would also cry for no apparent reason. We'd be in the middle of a conversation, and he'd begin heavily sobbing. I had only seen my father cry twice in my life; when his brother died, and when he found out he was going to be a grandfather for the first time. Crying wasn't something he did.
Even though he wasn't himself, I wasn't sure if I'd get another chance. It was uncomfortable to have the conversation, but I am glad I did. I looked at him in the eyes, and told him that I loved him. It was only the second time in my life I ever did that. I also told him he was a good father--the only time I ever did that.
I know his body was filled with medications and that he was just as uncomfortable as I was. I wasn't shocked by his response. It was plain and it was simple, but it was exactly like he would have done it.
He looked at me and said, "I appreciate that."
No comments:
Post a Comment