It’s been just about ten years since I said the only real prayer I’ve ever said: “Please make him better or take him soon.” I didn’t want my father to go through a long, emaciating fight against cancer.
I took a deep breath and rode the elevator up to the cancer floor at U Penn Hospital.
My stepmother was exhausted after several nights of trying to convince my morphine-delirious dad to keep his various tubes attached. She needed a break, and I flew in from Olympia to give her some relief. I assured her that I would do my best to watch over my way-too-young old man, and I sent her across the street to her hotel room. I took my position in the bedside chair and opened a magazine to read an article about Patrick Ewing’s final chance to win an NBA championship. (My father took me to Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks when I was about seven or eight, and it was difficult not to see the parallel between my dad’s last stand and Mr. Ewing’s.)
Through the evening and into the night he shifted and moaned. I did my best to keep him lying in bed, but I gave up at one point and let him sit on the edge. He seemed completely cogent as he sat hunched over and looking up at me. I asked him if he was okay, but he just sat there – he probably thought that I was part of a dream.
He cleared his throat, the way he always did, and lied back down without incident. I was extremely relieved – I felt way to young to be dealing with all of this. I didn’t know what I would do if he tried to get up. Should I have wrestled him back into bed or called for a nurse? I had no clue.
An hour or two later his heart stopped, but he was resuscitated by a furry of machines and personnel.
The next day my brother, sister, and I took him off life-support, and he died a violent, convulsive death in about an hour and a half.
Now, days go by without me thinking about my father – my favorite person I’ve ever known. Honestly, I’m relieved. Besides the guilt I feel for asking some god to take him away and my complicity in unhooking him from life-support, my first thoughts are always of those last couple of days. I’m rarely struck by a random memory about a beach house or a ski trip. It’s always the vision of his transparent skin, his bloody eyelids, and his broken body.
Ten years and counting.
Oh, Scotty.
Lots to chew on in one short post. Thanks.
The photo too. I hope you’re able to remember your old man that way, and not just broken at the end.
Having said that, though, were you expecting people not to comment on the pants, especially the provocatively placed Rush patch? Clearly he loved you on your own terms not to be cracking a smile when the shutter clicked.
Scotty, that sounds so rough. Thanks for talking about your loss in such personal, real terms.
I love the photo.
Aw, this is so heartbreaking; thanks for cheering me up with that photo, though (I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of you so young…).
Yes, you are the cutest of the cutes in that photo, Godfree. And your dad looks like an amazingly sweet man.
“Clearly he loved you on your own terms not to be cracking a smile when the shutter clicked.”
This is precisely what made him such a great person. He actually cared about getting to know people in a real way — I’ve never know him to pre-judge anyone. As for our relationship, there were only two things I ever did that he was not 100% supportive of: drop out of high school and smoke cigarettes.
I’m sorry to write such a downer post, but I figure, if not here with my people, where?
Great post, Scotty. I rarely comment, but I couldn’t let this one go by. Your Dad actually looks a lot like you (or, rather, you like him).
And, yeah, nice pants.
Very touching post, my heart goes out to you.
I’m glad they (above) mentioned the pants, because due to the sadness of the post- I probably wouldn’t have.
My Grandfather got into a bathtub and turned on hot water. Before he could get the water adjusted to warm, he had a stroke, which paralyzed his body. He could not lift himself, turn off the water, or move. His head was below the water level: when the boiling hot water filled the tub, he drowned. He was found the next day, burned skin…I had many good memories with him, but the only thing I remember is his death. Thanks for posting this, it made me think that, at some point, it’s time to get over the unimaginable and move on to appreciating the good memories – really, the only thing that’s left. I am very sorry about your loss.
“discount liquors”
I very much enjoying the juxtaposition of those who want to make a heartfelt comment and those who are busting at the seams to discuss my outfit. So, I’ll address the clothes.
The pants: I had a cigar box full of patches from my childhood that I decided to sew onto an old pair of genes. It made good fashion sense to me at the time. As for the discount liquor sweatshirt, that was a no-brainer (even before the days of iron-on irony).
Definitely: a good pair of genes. I love you.
I love the jeans. They’re hot. And they perk any depression that might come from such a pondersome post.
genes
oh and this, you really dropped out of high school? wow. could you do a post about that?
I thought of you all day and your dad and that great photo and the awkward memories that still remain with you. Many may not know that we share the strange coincidence/bond that both our too-young-to-be-sick-and-die fathers died within a month of each other. I understand this post very well and the title. Thanks for writing about this, Scott, it’s hard to believe it’s ten years already.
“I’m sorry to write such a downer post, but I figure, if not here with my people, where?”
I love being your people. Thank you for sharing.