Jenn:
I relive my own last days with my father reading your blog. The frustration of watching him losing his battle in front of my eyes. The feelings of helplessness as I lay by his bedside that first night in the hospital, freshly off the plane. My mind wandered back and recalled the things we'd been through. The differences of opinion, the ski trips, the let downs and the moments of love between father and son. I thought about the time I was five and fell of the top of a snow bank into the driveway and into the path of my parent's car. They stopped in time as they returned from a house hunting trip. I recalled the sadness in my house the day I scored my first basket in basketball. I was SO proud of myself, it was my birthday, and my Dad had been layed-off. I couldn't comprehend why anyone would be sad on my birthday and the day I scored a basket. (Selfish as it was.)
Through 40 years the road winded through love, hate, frustration, anger, disappointment, pride, joy and the realization that my father was who he was. He had left his mark in the way I interact with my own children, and his own relationship with Izzy. He would never be the father I dreamed of, for that man did not exist. And I could not hold that against Dad. Not any more. I finally realized that despite his faults, he had for the most part done the best he could as a Dad. With tears in my eyes I told him over and over, 'thanks for being god Dad and sharing that gift with me. I love you."
I held his hand firmly, it's cold dampness foretelling a future that no one can ever truly prepare for, praying my words would work their way through the ever increasing fog of the morphine. Each drip announcing itself loudly as it flowed downward through the tube attached to his now pale, weakened arm. Every fifteen minutes someone hit the little switch to start the drop of mind-numbing relief down the long slope, much like the hills we skied together years before, that took him far away from where he really was. It was only us there who were witnesses to his slipping away.
Later, my Mom (his ex-wife) came in with my sisters. As my Dad slept-on through his drug-induced sleep, she came over to the three of us and said one thing. "You need to tell him it's okay to let go." It's okay to let go. In sadness comes the relief of the long-battle being over. Just let go. It's okay. "Dad, it's okay, you can let go."
Posted by robdesign at December 8, 2004 05:03 PM