There’s a canyon in my chest, and I am afraid I will fall in
it if I wander too close the edge. There
are some rickety steps that descend along the wall, but no handrail.
I wonder what’s down there, though. It feels uncomfortably hot, like a humid
Thursday in early August with no breeze.
My throat closes at the thought of trying to breathe in that atmosphere –
it’s so different than the normal air up here.
So I’m not venturing down there. Screw it, I’ll just live nearby but stay
away from it.
**********
The excavation began back on August 3rd, 2017,
when I got one of those few calls that everyone gets at some point in their
lives. You know the calls I mean – where
the caller hesitates for a few moments before delivering some news that they
know you don’t want to hear, and they sure as hell don’t want to be the one to
tell it to you. My sister called to say
that our father had a stroke and was being admitted to the same hospital where
he was born and where all of our babies have been born for the last two
generations.
She found him around 5 p.m., sitting where he always sits at
his kitchen table, laptop open and cable news on the television. He was barely conscious, mouth hanging slack,
and no one will ever be able to tell us how long he’d been that way. He’d spoken to his sister earlier that day to
talk about plans for the day, but then he didn’t answer the phone when a friend
called around 2 p.m.
So – my sister called to deliver the news and to get my
agreement with the neurosurgeon’s recommendation to do an emergency embolectomy. This is where they go into your brain and
remove the offending blood clot. Without
the surgery, he would certainly die – but with it, he had a chance at some
rehabilitation and recovery.
Easy decision.
****************************************
Between August 3rd and early September, we had
our dad. Though the doctors said he’d
lost 2/3 of his brain function, he seemed to be recovering. I visited twice during these weeks and took
turns with my sisters and aunt in sitting with him, keeping him company, and
encouraging him during rehab sessions.
He rambled and talked at length, with flashes of complete
lucidity followed by a conversation with his long-departed parents. His swallowing function never came back, and
he would plead with anyone who would listen to get him a Diet Coke, sometimes
demanding that somebody better get him a f*#king Diet Coke or else.
His dog Pete (a mixed breed but mostly Bichon Frise) had
been certified as a service animal several months prior, so Pete came up to the
hospital and spent hours sleeping at the foot of Dad’s bed or sitting in his
lap.
He stood up and was able to take several assisted steps in
physical therapy; he learned how to shave and brush his teeth again; he played “bat the balloon” with the
occupational therapist, never once letting the balloon hit the floor. He told funny stories to visitors, flipped birds
at his sister, complained about the tiny Asian therapist who he called Tokyo
Rose and accused her of tormenting him.
He held my hand while I read Psalms to him for our own
little Sunday service one morning, and he closed his eyes while I quietly sang “Great
Is Thy Faithfulness” to him and to Pete.
I like to think he was enjoying it, although he may well have been
thinking, “dear Jesus, please make her stop”.
But he got pneumonia.
And diverticulitis. And he fell out of bed. And things
generally went to hell in a handbasket from there.
***********
I won’t belabor the grim details of his last ten days or
so. I am going to leave them down there
in that boiling canyon in my chest and hopefully they will be incinerated
because I don’t ever want to think about them again.
On Monday morning, September 11th, we decided to
have him undergo a palliative care assessment.
This is where they weigh out the pros and cons of continuing
rehabilitative and recovery efforts versus “comfort care” with lots of morphine
and support for an easy departure.
It was (mostly) a straightforward decision. I can never call it an “easy” decision, for there
was nothing easy about it. NOTHING.
The palliative care team said that it would probably be a
few days before Daddy took his last breath.
So I booked a plane ticket for first thing Tuesday morning and made
arrangements to stay in Tennessee for at least the next week.
***********
Daddy has been late for every appointment, every event,
every meal, every everything for his entire life. Years ago, we coined the phrase “Morton Standard Time” to describe the
alternative schedule by which he set his own clock (and sadly, many others of
us seem to have inherited or adopted ourselves.)
But on Monday evening, September 11th at 9 p.m.
eastern, he left early. After all, he
had someplace to be.
Am I mad, or hurt, or disappointed that I wasn’t there to
see him off? Maybe, selfishly, a little
disappointed… holding my mother’s hand when she drew her last breath is one of
the most treasured memories I will ever have.
I thought I’d have a matching version when it was his time, too.
But alas, once again God’s timing is perfect and
well-ordered and completely off-script from my game plan, and Dad’s suffering ended shortly after his third palliative dose
of morphine.
**********
And so the augur was set, chewing through my sternum and
organs and leaving the hot and miserable canyon initially described
herein. The next few days were
incredibly busy what with planning and well-wishers and lots of food and others
in need of comfort for their grief.
There was no time to contemplate my own grief. So I shoved it down in the hole and kept
moving.
Dad wanted to be cremated, but the funeral home allowed me a
private visit with his body for a couple of hours on Wednesday afternoon.
When they opened the door to the room where he lay in a
plain casket, I gasped and literally took a step backwards. There was that beak, sticking up from a
pillow inside of a box. Those big dopey
Dumbo ears that he could wiggle on command (and I can, too!) Longish gray and brown curls – we’d never
managed to get his barber to visit him in the hospital. Dismissing any thoughts of decorum, I put my
head on his big barrel chest and sobbed on him and at him.
But the chest was silent, hard, cold – empty. And I knew he wasn’t in there anyway. This was just the package that the soul of my
father occupied for 76 years.
Seventy-six years of good, full living with plenty of chaos and drama
and love and heartbreak and fun. Lots of
fun. Boxes can only take so much fun
before they wear out.
My grief poured out all over that old box before they took
it for cremation later that afternoon.
But grief doesn’t incinerate.
**********
I have done my share of crying in the 8 days since
then. I arrived at 9:59 before his 10
a.m. graveside service (Morton Standard Time, and it wasn’t on purpose), and I
sat with my despair and my sisters and brothers on the front row of folding
chairs in front of a small black box.
And I wept. And wept, and wept
and wept. Then I wept some more. Then it was time to go. I put a little Diet
Coke next to the little black box and we all got up and left.
**********
I’d written his obituary earlier that week, and I’d decided
that I’d like to say a few words at his memorial service. I wrote out my thoughts in a couple of draft
versions … but I didn’t finalize them until the last 15 minutes before the
memorial service began. After my earlier
disintegrations, folks including myself were nervous that I wouldn’t be able to
deliver a coherent message.
As many folks later said, that was the best funeral they’d
ever attended. Not so much because of
what I said, but because there was so much love and joy filling the room. If you were among the lucky friends and
family who were there last Friday afternoon, then you’ll know what I mean. God was present, offering comfort and peace…
and when it was time for me to talk, I felt Daddy there, supporting me and
cheering me on and saying, “you’ve got this, Baby Girl.”
And so for the last time on this side of heaven, I think I
made my Dad proud. Here is what I said:
How
are you today?
I’m
just fine, thanks for asking.
How
about you? You fine?
Well,
it certainly is a fine day to honor a fine man.
That’s
what folks have always said to me about Dad… that he is a fine man. Not the
“he’s so fine” sense (well maybe some of y’all did, but he’s my dad. Don’t be gross.) But more
along the lines of a “fine, upstanding citizen”.
These are not words that my father would use
to describe himself. Dad considered
himself a rascal, a scalawag, a scoundrel.
And he thought that being a “fine upstanding citizen” was something that
would always be just a little bit beyond his reach.
Now why is that? After all, he’s from one of Knoxville’s
finest families, and he grew up in this fine neighborhood, in this fine church. He taught me to ride a bike in the parking
lot of Reed’s Fine Foods right across the street. He had many of the “finer things” growing up
that others didn’t have, and his parents were truly fine, upstanding citizens
themselves.
But he made mistakes along the way – some
little bitty ones, and some doozies.
Somehow he’d gotten the idea that fine people are perfect. Fine people don’t have guilt, fine people
don’t cuss or drink J&B or eat too much red meat.
I think Dad chased the notion of becoming a
fine man his whole life – and I think most of us would agree that he got there
a long time ago. You see, my dad is
absolutely with his Savior Jesus Christ right now. I am not crying for poor old pitiful me
anymore (you shoulda seen me this morning though). I am celebrating that our Jan is hanging out
with Buddy and P-tee and Normie and Fred and his mom and dad – and his sweet
sweet Ruthie. He’s probably even passed
a kind word with Linda and Mildred.
If you ever went anywhere with Jan, you knew
it was going to be a while before you got back.
He had to stop and talk to EVERYBODY.
It drove me crazy when I was little – what on earth did he have to talk
about, and for heaven’s sake, why did it take so long? As I got older, mid-teens maybe, I noticed
that it really didn’t matter who he was talking to – it was going to take
however long it was going to take, and it didn’t matter if he was talking to a
Fortune 500 CEO or the kid bagging his groceries. He was going to visit a minute, and maybe ask
about their mom, and then he’d be ready to go on.
You see, our dad loved everyone for who they
are, not what they have or do. He just
loved PEOPLE. He loved all y’all. He
loved us – he loves us still.
And that old rascal who thought he was
always going to be a black sheep - he has
been white as snow for a long long time.
Rest high on that mountain, Dad.
There will never be one finer.
The canyon is still there, and I’m still afraid of looking
too close and or falling in.
But it doesn’t look quite as deep as I thought it was
yesterday.