I feel obligated to start with a word of thanks to everyone that has told me, in some form or another, that they've read the previous post. And yet another thank you to those who have told me they'll be continuing to read. I think it goes without saying (even though I'm 99% sure I did in the previous post) that something like this is really difficult to write. It truly dredges up a series of emotions that, previously, I don't even think I properly acknowledged and, frankly, are still uncomfortable to face. Particularly when my preferred writing spot is in the middle of a local coffee shop. Let me tell you, if I thought it was emasculating to order a drink with no whip, you can imagine what it feels like staring at your computer screen with tears streaming down your face and seeing people notice you but pretend not to.
Anyway, thank you to all those people for their words of encouragement with the story. Thank you for those that have acknowledged the arduous task I've set myself on. Thank you for the kind words on my writing - even though I think it's still got a ways to go. There haven't been a ton of people, and I wouldn't expect that because I think, to some extent, discussing these types of things are a bit taboo (not in a kinky way, mind you). But, because of you I've decided that I need to continue and I'm hoping that maybe some good will come of it - in true egomaniacal sense, even if it's only to benefit me. A part of me thinks that someone else out there might read this and realize that the things they're dealing with aren't that uncommon, or weird, or wrong, or whatever and if it does that, well, that's pretty damn dope too. Lastly, even if you did not take the time to acknowledge to me in any sense that you read, or are reading it, but you did, well, I think that deserves some thanks too. I really, truly, appreciate it.
I think I was at the point where I was driving home and I had just left my mom a voicemail. I don't remember any of the drive home other than I drove in silence with only the sounds of a what I'm sure looked like a blubbering lunatic to anyone that passed me and looked in the window to see the moron that was driving so goddamn slow. I don't remember getting to my mom's house, I don't remember if we went straight to the hospital that night (although it seems unlikely because it must have been fairly late into the evening), I don't remember a lot about anything following that drive. The next spot in my memory picks up when I was walking into my dad's room in the Saginaw VA.
Just picturing it I had to stop a few minutes and force myself to go on. To continue writing. I kinda thought he looked like he was dead already. There, on the bed that he would always be sitting on, happy to see me when I'd visit during the weekend, was the shell of a man I once knew. His hair somehow neatly combed like it always was (which I never understood. I'd say to him, "Dad, you're sure as hell not going anywhere. Why bother?". But it was just his way). His eyes were open and stared ahead blankly. His mouth was slightly agape. My dad was not a skinny man by any means, but he seemed lesser somehow. I remember his legs sticking out of the bottom of his hospital gown and they looked like chicken legs - just all skinny and frail. I couldn't imagine them holding anything up, not even a shitty IKEA bedside table. It had probably only been a few days into the week, meaning I had practically just left from seeing him, but everything about him had changed. Well, everything but his hair.
I was scared to walk up to him, but didn't hesitate. It felt like being in the shittiest dream you've ever had. I guess people call those nightmares. I was scared to approach him but something pulled me to him. I think I saw his eyes look in my direction - I don't know how but I know he knew I was there. It seems like a lot of people say that about people in comas, or unresponsive, or whatever and I always thought it sounded like bullshit. People wanting to attach that idea to a fucked up situation because it brought them some kind of comfort to think that their effort or time isn't being wasted or because they think it makes it more meaningful somehow. I guess I could be doing the same thing. But I'd still say that he knew I was there.
Surrounded by the sterile environment of the hospital, in a moment I'm sure I'll remember forever, everything seemed so impersonal. I couldn't focus on any one thing. I could hear the beeping of whatever medical equipment was hooked up to my dad, I could hear someone groaning down the hall way, I heard the "DING" of someone pressing the nurse call button, I could feel the world simultaneously slip away and be omnipresent at the same time. Taking everything in seemed to go on for ages, but it must have only been a short while because the nurse was still there. I remember her saying something like, "We think he's aware of everything. They like it when you talk to them - it seems to help. Go ahead." I remember thinking that it seemed dreadfully impersonal that she referred to people in a state like my dad's as "they." My dad wasn't a "they" or a "them". He was a somebody, well, I mean he was a nobody, but he was a somebody to me. I know the nurse didn't mean anything by it, but it still sticks out to me this day.
Kinda like writing that letter - it seemed stupid to talk to him. Not that I had anyone to impress anyway since it seemed that everything else dropped away, but I just really had difficulty finding the things to say. What do you say to someone who can't do a damn thing but lay there and stare at the ceiling and maybe move their eyes a little bit? He couldn't even wet his own lips, they were all chapped to hell and I remember periodically applying water to them to try and ease some discomfort. I mean, I guess, when cancer's eating your body up the last thing you want is chapped lips. Makes a lot of fucking sense to me. But, really, what do you say to someone in that state? I'm sure when you can't do a damn thing but stare ahead you'd love to hear all about how classes are going, or what happened yesterday on Divorce Court, or how I think I might have a chance with this sorority girl. It just seemed like a teardrop in the ocean. Fucking pointless.
On the opposite hand, it seemed even more idiotic to talk about the things that probably were going through his mind. And, frankly, what kind of moron would do that? "So, dad, it looks like this is curtains for you. Well, you had a good run I mean, hey, you are, what?, 78 now? I know a lot of people that died a lot sooner! You got it good! Count your blessings, you're headed to a better place." I mean, really, get off it. What the fuck could I talk about?
All I felt like I could do was stare at him and wait. And all he could do was stare at the ceiling.
The next thing I knew, visiting hours were over. I don't remember either myself or my mom having to ask - the staff said we could stay. We could stay overnight, we could stay until. A little bit down the hall there was a small waiting room of sorts. For what, I dunno, but it looked like one of those small observation rooms they put kids in in the movies with a bunch of toys to see how they play with shit. There were a couple of couches with the vinyl cushions that look like the benches in pickups, and a few of those weird chairs with the same cushion material that are wide enough for two people from 'My 600 Pound Life' to sit comfortably next to each other (if you call those cushions comfortable). They gave us some, presumably, clean sheets and let us set up camp.
The days all kind of melded together. It was all the same, over and over again. Like Groundhog's Day but without the cool ability to know what's coming or the romantic plot. The nurses would come in and check a few things here and there, change the sheets, wash him up once in a while, and be on their way. I remember staring at the "DNR" sign above his bed for hours thinking about its significance and what it meant (Do Not Resuscitate for the uninitiated. Or, "if this dude starts to die, let him.")
Somewhere during the first couple days I remember having gone to dad's house to get a tape player and some of his favorite tapes. Anne Murray's Greatest Hits (You Needed Me was his favorite), Reader's Digest World's 100 Most Beautiful Melodies, The Very Best of Perry Como (Magic Moments or Catch a Falling Star being his picks), and a homemade tape of Celine Dion singing Power of Love over and over again (a tape he made me make for him just because he liked that damn song that much. Seriously... what the fuck?). These tracks became, in essence, the soundtrack to my dad's death as weird as that seems. In odd ways, they don't affect me negatively though because these were the things he always had going in the tapedeck in whatever he was driving as far back as I can remember. Especially the Reader's Digest thing... to this day whenever i hear some of those classical pieces, I know every little nuance in them because I've heard them so goddamn much.
In retrospect, I think the tunes were more for us than they were him. It's a lot easier to think of the good times you've had with someone with a memory boost like the music that was playing in the background and thinking about those times were a lot cheerier than sitting in silence staring at the DNR sign in silence. Just waiting minute after minute, hour after hour, and day after day.
And, with that thought, I've reached my limit for the day. Thanks again to everyone if you've made it this far, I'll be back with more soon-ish.
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