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My Dad

The End

By Carol JaxPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
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Backwards is the best way to explore the direction of the life waiting to happen to be realized Standing on the path, resting on the shoulders of the past, scrutiny not of the minute but from the air view that holds a chart of the course waiting to propel the flight forward.

It takes discipline and time to uncover what has already been lived to revisit the done, the spent. The moments look far different when the emotion of connection is removed and the detachment of observer is employed.

Looking back over time I see the room with its white walls, not even painted a color to pretend the room wasn’t a hospital box waiting for death to steal away the opportunity for another day lived. The room divided not by math but chrome bars with desperately thin sheets hung to suggest privacy and respect into four compartments. The drama from the setting behind the sheets was different for every resident but the Shakespearian ending was always the outcome of the story that had a character find him self housed in these walls. Death visited and took the residents from this home always. I was called to the room sometime around 6:00pm in the dark of January 18th. I drove somewhat separated from myself towards the hospital. I had prepared myself for this day for almost 20 years, my father had turned 96 in August and I had been expecting it to come sometime. It was a ride where you jump into the vehicle knowing who you are and where you are going but the moment the door closes the self morphs into a witness, an observer of the actions and details of the drive, not the participant. My two children belted in and buzzing with their thoughts of my dashing to my father’s bed in the hospital, my daughter excited by the prospect of visiting her nana and having chocolate cake and my son absorbing the feelings of controlled panic from me. His brown eyes full of compassion lending his support and confirming my contribution to his social development, were they dropped or thrown, I cannot recall, from the Cherokee into the care of my mother as I flew forward in my dash to reach my dad before he died. Why?

I parked. I walked. I took the elevator. I walked. I greeted. I walked. I arrived.

His little form lay beneath a thin sheet, perhaps this one had now earned it place on a chrome divider. A thinner blanket, over the sheet, but what I remember was how neat it was. His lips had some balm on them obviously dehydration and difficulty breathing had left a barren desert on his lips. His hair neatly done but not how he would have had it done. The façade of privacy had been edited by a healthy hand. I remember the silence in the room when I had filled the over sized door. It was one of those surreal moments when all the sounds and emotions of what is happening bounce around the room like a Batman and Robin episode. “Poor thing,” “he must be dying,” “shame,” “pity.” I wonder if the situation had stored the words in the walls and they didn’t even need to be thought but acted on queue independently of human invitation. I pulled a chair from the ether I think. I pulled it up close to the bed and sat my body next to left side of his head.

I took his folded hands in mine and began chatting. I am sure now that the young, vibrant, man I saw bolting from the hospital entrance had been my father. He was not here. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open, not slightly, not a little bit but gaping, gasping, actually, his lungs like hands grabbing for oxygen. I told him things mostly the truth. I told him what a great father he had been, and how his son and I loved him. I spoke of the importance of his role in our lives and the impact of his presence. I assured him that he was successful and we loved him. I told him a lot. I told him my life was good and the kids were doing well behaving themselves and listening to me. I told him about the job I was working at and that the divorce was not too bad, I was okay being alone. These lies would go to eternity but the truth was far too uninvited this night. The room was already filled with other guests. Life has a funny way of taking control of thoughts and channeling them into paths to survive the moments. I focused on a blackhead on his cheek and debated the need to squeeze it for perhaps two hours. I did not. During the debate I didn’t notice the breathing change from strong greedy gasps to shallow closed mouth acceptance of air. His lips limped along themselves indifferent to the passing of fuel. I talked and talked and when he ended I talked some more. I had heard the last sense to go is hearing and I decreased the squeezing of his hands for fear of wounding. I sat and watched him for some ten minutes after he bothered with his last bit of life. The End, but not the end, I had to call someone else to make sure he was dead. Then all life began in the room again and hustling a bustling by over stuffed nurses padded perhaps to absorb the pain? I was shown his dirty laundry and a woman with brown hair, no blonde, maybe a man, helped my shove his life into a garbage bag. I could see the snow had begun to fall and was back lit by the parking lot lights. I ran from the room three hours from when I had run to it. I had what I had come for. Although, nothing of great drama had occurred everything was different and nothing had changed.

I wrote this immediately after my dad died. I didn't edit it and have never edited it. This is more like a scar or a photo — capturing a moment.

grief
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