Dear Dad,
Three years ago this evening, I sat at your side as you took your last breaths. I'd flown from Colorado to Illinois the previous day, after receiving the phone call from your wife, my step-mom, that I'd been dreading for a few years. "If you want to see Dad, you need to come now", was the message. I'd taken the day off work and knew when my cell phone rang, and your mobile number was displayed, that this was the end.
My husband (my knight, my rock) helped me pack and arrange care for our daughters, and I saturated his shoulders with my tears while I was on hold with the airlines, trying to schedule a flight for the next morning. I prayed - out loud - that you would live until then.
We dropped the girls off at 6AM the following morning and headed for the airport. I was physically ill, suffering from stomach cramps, the shakes, and cold sweats. Silently, I was begging God to let you live until I got there, just so I could tell you I loved you. Our flight departed on time, and once we arrived at the small regional airport, the rental car was ready, a map was in the glove compartment, and we sped down the oak-lined interstate directly to the hospital.
Entering the ICU, I saw both of my step-sisters and my step-mom immediately. I'd held my composure from the time we boarded the plane in Denver until now, and then whatever semblance of control I had flew out the fifth floor window of the hospital. We sobbed, the four of us "girls". We cried for you, for your suffering, for the peace you were going to feel when you left us, and for our loss. We cried for the time we hadn't spent together, and for the time we knew we wouldn't be together after all this was over.
My step-mom told me to be prepared when I went into your room. "The ventilator is noisy and it looks like a gas mask. He's not making sense and I think he's delirious. But he'll be SO glad to see you."
It took me five or so minutes to gear myself up for the trip down the hall, but no amount of time could have softened the shock and sadness I felt when I walked in to see you, my daddy, hooked up to so many machines. Noisy contraptions droning, whining, pushing air in, MAKING you live. Initially, you didn't realize my husband and I were there. You were staring at the ceiling, your eyes glassy and almost hollow. I touched your hand, thin, bony, and cold, and put on as though I'd just popped in for a surprise visit. Your mind suddenly snapped to attention and the recognition showed in your beautiful, light blue eyes.
"What are you doing here?" you asked. I told you I was there to see you. And then you started telling my husband how you used to stuff guys in the trunk of your car so you didn't have to pay full price at the drive in. I laughed my ass off. You reached for an imaginary medicine cabinet, pulled out a non-existent bottle, and popped make-believe pills in your mouth. You then proceeded to claw at the mask from the ventilator, wanted it off your face, and became agitated. It was quickly becoming uncomfortable for me to watch. Just moments later, your lucidity returned and you asked how our trip was, how long we'd be visiting, and if we were hungry. I had to leave your room for a while to take all of it in. The machines, the sterility, the emptiness in the room - maybe you didn't notice, but it was too much for me all at once.
We'd made the decision collectively to remove you from the ventilator. I fell against the wall and nearly collapsed while we waited for the medical staff to perform their duty. We were once again allowed back in your room and you were coherent again. You asked for ice chips and water, though you weren't supposed to have any liquid. "Why the hell not," we thought. It's not like that's what was going to kill you. We fed you water, and made sure your right foot wasn't covered with a sheet - you hated it. You became tired, and we were emotionally and physically spent. It was time to retire to the hotel.
The following morning, my husband and I drove to the hospital and joined a family meeting with the doctors. "...and is asleep. I'm not sure if you want to wait, since we don't know how long it will be." Hearing this, I was beside myself with anticipation. You're going to wake up and then we'll talk about my childhood vacations, I can tell you how much I love you, and we'll remember the good times! But, you weren't ever going to wake up.
That evening, my husband and I were trying to make ourselves comfortable in your room, which wasn't easy to do. The damn reclining chair wouldn't recline unless it nearly tipped me over backwards. There was no pull-out couch, and I was almost resigned to sleeping on the linoleum floor. I sat in that chair and held your hand, and felt your feet. Your extremities were getting colder by the hour. Your breathing was loud, congested, and labored. It was almost rhythmic.
I was joking around with my husband about that stupid, pathetic chair, laughing, kicking it, and cursing it. I finally settled in, still holding your hand and checking to see that your right foot wasn't covered. And then I looked at my husband. And it was quiet. You had gone. Maybe you were waiting to make sure I would be o.k. when you left, and my laughter convinced you so. Maybe you waited until the most opportune moment to slip away while we weren't holding vigil too closely. Whatever the reason, I am glad I was there with you, Daddy, to know you are at peace.
So three years later, here's to you, Dad. You're sitting on top of my computer desk in your fatigues, and your dress blues, and in your suit taken during your retirement party. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about you, and don't yearn to hear your voice. And to the man that liked a good beer during his drinking days and a good smoke during his smoking days, I'm stepping outside with a 16 ouncer in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. Meet me out on the back deck in five minutes.
Love,
Your little girl