Dad felt sick. He had a cough and felt tightness in his chest that was not only annoying, but sometimes forced him to gasp for breath.
Sister in Law came home early from work to take him to the doctor. “I’m too sick to go,” Dad told her.
She was upset—she and Caretaker were short of money as it was, and there was no pay for this time—but knowing Dad, she did not allow him to see her frustration. “Well, if you are too sick to go, then you really need to.” Sometimes reasoning with him worked.
“I can’t walk to the car. I can’t get my breath,” he said.
She thought a minute. “Look, I’ll set up chairs all along the sidewalk. You can just walk from chair to chair and take your time to get to the car. If you can’t breathe, you really need to go to the doctor.”
Dad shook his head. “Not going.”
Sister in Law allowed her frustration to show, just for a moment. “Dad, I really don’t want to come in here tomorrow morning and find you dead.”
“I’ll go tomorrow. Don't worry, I'm not going to die.”
So Sister in law cancelled the appointment, telling the receptionist that Dad would reschedule. He did, for the next afternoon.
He never made it. Caretaker came to take him to that appointment and found his body.
At least Sister in Law did not find him.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Placating with Pepsi
ARUGH… A choking, guttural cry arose from Dad’s bedroom. A stunned Youngest, across the hall working in the office, ran to investigate. Caretaker, who had heard his name called from the direction of the bedroom, emerged from the kitchen at the same time.
“What do you want?” Caretaker asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Youngest said. “But I heard someone cry out.”
They both turned to stare at the bedroom door. After a long silence, Caretaker said, “I’ll get the man a Pepsi.”
Problem was, the man—Dad—had been dead for three days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To know Dad was to know that he adored Pepsi. Some of my earliest memories are of him relaxing after work with a Pepsi and a cigarette. In those days, he always was with one or the other. We little kids loved to sneak drinks out of his Pepsi when his back was turned.
(Once as I gulped from his Pepsi bottle, I realized too late that he had used it as an ashtray. To this day I take a quick peek into any bottle before I drink out of it.)
Dad gained 150 lbs when he quit smoking. In a nod to his obesity, he switched from regular to diet Pepsi. After he developed a heart arrhythmia, he easily gave up coffee but could not quit his Pepsi. He started drinking caffeine free diet Pepsi (CFDP), four to five two liter bottles a day.
He prepared his Pepsi as ritualistically as a priest prepares the Eucharist. He took his huge mug, filled it to the brim with ice, poured his Pepsi, and held the bottle by the bottom with one hand as he screwed the lid back on. He kept a folded paper towel on his bedside table to use as a coaster. A day’s worth of bottles stayed lined up against the wall next to his bed so he could open a new bottle as soon as he emptied one.
As his hips and knees became arthritic from carrying so much weight, it was too much for Dad to fetch his own ice and Pepsi. Every few hours he called from his room, “Caretaker! I need some more ice!” When Caretaker brought him the ice, Dad inevitably added, “And get me another Pepsi, if you would.” Caretaker would trudge back to the kitchen for a fresh bottle.
When Caretaker found Dad’s body, atop his open palm was a closed, partially empty two liter bottle of CFDP.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Caretaker got out the old mug, filled it with ice, and poured it full of CFDP. He placed a piece of folded paper towel on the bedside table and set the mug down. “There you go, Dad.”
I arrived a few hours later and was startled to see the mug of Pepsi on Dad’s bedside table. “What in the world?”
Youngest chuckled and shook his head. “Have we got something to tell you!”
They told the tale again when everyone gathered for supper. Caretaker said, “He died so fast he doesn’t know he’s dead! He still wants his Pepsi!”
“Poor Dad,” I said. “If that’s the case, he probably is wondering why no one is getting him any ice when he calls.”
My sister in law started to laugh. “He thought no one would care if he died. And here we are, still worried about getting him ice and Pepsi.”
Caretaker kept the mug replenished until the night before we left for Dad’s funeral. Dad or his spirit or whatever apparently was satisfied. We heard no more shouts from his bedroom.
“What do you want?” Caretaker asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Youngest said. “But I heard someone cry out.”
They both turned to stare at the bedroom door. After a long silence, Caretaker said, “I’ll get the man a Pepsi.”
Problem was, the man—Dad—had been dead for three days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To know Dad was to know that he adored Pepsi. Some of my earliest memories are of him relaxing after work with a Pepsi and a cigarette. In those days, he always was with one or the other. We little kids loved to sneak drinks out of his Pepsi when his back was turned.
(Once as I gulped from his Pepsi bottle, I realized too late that he had used it as an ashtray. To this day I take a quick peek into any bottle before I drink out of it.)
Dad gained 150 lbs when he quit smoking. In a nod to his obesity, he switched from regular to diet Pepsi. After he developed a heart arrhythmia, he easily gave up coffee but could not quit his Pepsi. He started drinking caffeine free diet Pepsi (CFDP), four to five two liter bottles a day.
He prepared his Pepsi as ritualistically as a priest prepares the Eucharist. He took his huge mug, filled it to the brim with ice, poured his Pepsi, and held the bottle by the bottom with one hand as he screwed the lid back on. He kept a folded paper towel on his bedside table to use as a coaster. A day’s worth of bottles stayed lined up against the wall next to his bed so he could open a new bottle as soon as he emptied one.
As his hips and knees became arthritic from carrying so much weight, it was too much for Dad to fetch his own ice and Pepsi. Every few hours he called from his room, “Caretaker! I need some more ice!” When Caretaker brought him the ice, Dad inevitably added, “And get me another Pepsi, if you would.” Caretaker would trudge back to the kitchen for a fresh bottle.
When Caretaker found Dad’s body, atop his open palm was a closed, partially empty two liter bottle of CFDP.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Caretaker got out the old mug, filled it with ice, and poured it full of CFDP. He placed a piece of folded paper towel on the bedside table and set the mug down. “There you go, Dad.”
I arrived a few hours later and was startled to see the mug of Pepsi on Dad’s bedside table. “What in the world?”
Youngest chuckled and shook his head. “Have we got something to tell you!”
They told the tale again when everyone gathered for supper. Caretaker said, “He died so fast he doesn’t know he’s dead! He still wants his Pepsi!”
“Poor Dad,” I said. “If that’s the case, he probably is wondering why no one is getting him any ice when he calls.”
My sister in law started to laugh. “He thought no one would care if he died. And here we are, still worried about getting him ice and Pepsi.”
Caretaker kept the mug replenished until the night before we left for Dad’s funeral. Dad or his spirit or whatever apparently was satisfied. We heard no more shouts from his bedroom.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Funerals, Part III
Part I
Part II
Sleep was not to be had that night. Even Only Son, who relished the thought of an uninterrupted night’s sleep away from his children, tossed and turned. Finally at 5 am, we gave up. In search of coffee, I left the room only to run into bleary-eyed Caretaker, who paced the walk outside of our adjacent rooms smoking a cigarette. We shook our heads and laughed.
A sleepy and apprehensive family drove through rain to the funeral home after breakfast. Youngest hurried into the parlor to fetch the remainder of Mom’s ashes; he brought the cremation box to the undertaker the day before so half of her ashes could be placed in Dad’s coffin. He feared that if he delayed, he would leave without the other half. The Episcopal priest awaited us in the lobby. We discussed what kind of service Dad wanted and decided on the committal from Burial II in the Book of Common Prayer. I had shown that service to my brothers before the trip to Arkansas so there would be no recriminations. They approved.
The funeral director pulled me aside. “We have Mr. E ready for you to see,” he said. He led us to a side room where our father was laid out in his silver coffin.
We had been warned that his face was swollen and discolored. “His face will be heavily cosmetized,” the funeral director continued, “as his nose is bruised. Just so you know.”
Seeing him, though, his face was not swollen as much as it was fat. Our father had weighed around 350 lbs; to us, he appeared as he usually did. We could see the faint areas of bruising on his nose from his death fall but the makeup hid it well. The funeral home had given him a nice haircut.
For a man in his coffin, he looked great.
Instinctively I reached for his hand. It was ice. I kissed his mannequin like forehead and patted his white hair. “Love you, Daddy.” Only Son held back from the coffin, silent and wide eyed. Caretaker and Youngest spoke to the body briefly. We stayed only a few minutes. My eyes were full as I dragged out of the room.
Driving to the cemetery, I was gratified to see cars pull over as we passed, out of respect for our father. We were silent. The rain continued.
We chose not to open the coffin at the gravesite. We had no idea who might come, if anyone did. Dad had not lived in his hometown since 1962. Who would remember him?
As the time for the service approached, as sappy as it sounds, the rain quit and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. We noticed several cars parking and elderly people beginning to make their way to where we stood. Happy to see people arriving, Caretaker and I practically ran to meet them. Seven people in all came. Among them were one of Dad’s best high school friends, now a retired Arkansas Supreme Court judge; the woman who had been Dad’s date to both their junior and senior prom; and Dad’s seventh grade math teacher. We visited for a few minutes then began the service.
If you know the Episcopal prayer book, you know that the committal service is very short. It was just perfect for what my family needed, and was in accordance with Dad’s wishes. Caretaker, who knows nothing about the Episcopal Church except what he has read in the newspaper, was impressed with the priest. He thought the robes were “cool” and called him “the Episcopal priest surfer dude” due to Fr. B’s beard and demeanor. We visited with everyone a bit more, thanked them for coming. Dad’s long ago prom date was very happy to meet us and told Caretaker that she wished we could have been her children. She had just lost her own husband in April.
The time at the cemetery drew to a close as the rain returned. I kissed Dad’s coffin before we left, leaving a lipstick print as a goodbye present. We spent perhaps forty-five minutes there. We spoke about the service back at the hotel as we changed into traveling clothes and agreed that it had gone quite well. As for me, I felt much better than I had when Mom had died. Dad’s funeral had been a good and necessary experience.
A month has passed since Dad’s death. In further answer to Law Enforcer’s question mentioned in Part I, I am much stronger now than I was at this point after Mom’s demise. A good bit of that I attribute to the ability to say goodbye to Dad in a final, ritualized way. There is no doubt in my mind or heart that Dad is gone, no abstract thoughts that he could be just away. Saying farewell to Dad helped me bid so long to my mother also. The urn containing her ashes was tucked into the coffin, out of sight to the onlookers but certainly not out of mind to us children. Although her name was not mentioned, we knew she was there with him and both were going to their rest. This sense of closure relieved my troubled mind.
And awaiting Only Son and me at the end of the journey that funeral day were his children, my dear grandchildren. When they ran out to greet us with grins, squeals and hugs, I almost forgot my grief. Mom and Dad may be gone, but the family they started over half a century ago carries on.
Part II
Sleep was not to be had that night. Even Only Son, who relished the thought of an uninterrupted night’s sleep away from his children, tossed and turned. Finally at 5 am, we gave up. In search of coffee, I left the room only to run into bleary-eyed Caretaker, who paced the walk outside of our adjacent rooms smoking a cigarette. We shook our heads and laughed.
A sleepy and apprehensive family drove through rain to the funeral home after breakfast. Youngest hurried into the parlor to fetch the remainder of Mom’s ashes; he brought the cremation box to the undertaker the day before so half of her ashes could be placed in Dad’s coffin. He feared that if he delayed, he would leave without the other half. The Episcopal priest awaited us in the lobby. We discussed what kind of service Dad wanted and decided on the committal from Burial II in the Book of Common Prayer. I had shown that service to my brothers before the trip to Arkansas so there would be no recriminations. They approved.
The funeral director pulled me aside. “We have Mr. E ready for you to see,” he said. He led us to a side room where our father was laid out in his silver coffin.
We had been warned that his face was swollen and discolored. “His face will be heavily cosmetized,” the funeral director continued, “as his nose is bruised. Just so you know.”
Seeing him, though, his face was not swollen as much as it was fat. Our father had weighed around 350 lbs; to us, he appeared as he usually did. We could see the faint areas of bruising on his nose from his death fall but the makeup hid it well. The funeral home had given him a nice haircut.
For a man in his coffin, he looked great.
Instinctively I reached for his hand. It was ice. I kissed his mannequin like forehead and patted his white hair. “Love you, Daddy.” Only Son held back from the coffin, silent and wide eyed. Caretaker and Youngest spoke to the body briefly. We stayed only a few minutes. My eyes were full as I dragged out of the room.
Driving to the cemetery, I was gratified to see cars pull over as we passed, out of respect for our father. We were silent. The rain continued.
We chose not to open the coffin at the gravesite. We had no idea who might come, if anyone did. Dad had not lived in his hometown since 1962. Who would remember him?
As the time for the service approached, as sappy as it sounds, the rain quit and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. We noticed several cars parking and elderly people beginning to make their way to where we stood. Happy to see people arriving, Caretaker and I practically ran to meet them. Seven people in all came. Among them were one of Dad’s best high school friends, now a retired Arkansas Supreme Court judge; the woman who had been Dad’s date to both their junior and senior prom; and Dad’s seventh grade math teacher. We visited for a few minutes then began the service.
If you know the Episcopal prayer book, you know that the committal service is very short. It was just perfect for what my family needed, and was in accordance with Dad’s wishes. Caretaker, who knows nothing about the Episcopal Church except what he has read in the newspaper, was impressed with the priest. He thought the robes were “cool” and called him “the Episcopal priest surfer dude” due to Fr. B’s beard and demeanor. We visited with everyone a bit more, thanked them for coming. Dad’s long ago prom date was very happy to meet us and told Caretaker that she wished we could have been her children. She had just lost her own husband in April.
The time at the cemetery drew to a close as the rain returned. I kissed Dad’s coffin before we left, leaving a lipstick print as a goodbye present. We spent perhaps forty-five minutes there. We spoke about the service back at the hotel as we changed into traveling clothes and agreed that it had gone quite well. As for me, I felt much better than I had when Mom had died. Dad’s funeral had been a good and necessary experience.
A month has passed since Dad’s death. In further answer to Law Enforcer’s question mentioned in Part I, I am much stronger now than I was at this point after Mom’s demise. A good bit of that I attribute to the ability to say goodbye to Dad in a final, ritualized way. There is no doubt in my mind or heart that Dad is gone, no abstract thoughts that he could be just away. Saying farewell to Dad helped me bid so long to my mother also. The urn containing her ashes was tucked into the coffin, out of sight to the onlookers but certainly not out of mind to us children. Although her name was not mentioned, we knew she was there with him and both were going to their rest. This sense of closure relieved my troubled mind.
And awaiting Only Son and me at the end of the journey that funeral day were his children, my dear grandchildren. When they ran out to greet us with grins, squeals and hugs, I almost forgot my grief. Mom and Dad may be gone, but the family they started over half a century ago carries on.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Funerals, Part II
Part I
The next day I hopped into the car for the day and a half trip back to Missouri, only six weeks after I had been there for Mom’s non-funeral. Caretaker told me that Dad’s body already was on its way to Arkansas and a service would be either that weekend or the following Monday. I needed to hurry.
Only Son already had agreed to drive with me to Arkansas. I needed his support; besides, he had lived with my parents during his freshman year of college, and had fond memories. Two of my brothers, Caretaker and Youngest, would drive in another car. No one else could afford the short notice plane fare or get off work long enough to make the trip. We hated that so few of us would be there. Dad deserved more.
Immediately following Mom’s death, Dad discussed his own wishes for his "mortal remains". “I’ve got it all arranged,” he said. “Everything is paid for. Call John Doe Funeral Home, and they’ll take care of everything. I don’t want a full service, but I would like some prayers said before I’m buried. And I want some of your mother’s ashes in the coffin with me.”
As I drove, I thought, “A few prayers before I'm buried...” Yikes, who would do that? Apparently reading my mind, Caretaker’s wife called my cell phone (I had my headset on just in case).
“Youngest says you are far enough along in your religious studies to say the prayers Dad wanted. Are you?” she asked.
“Well, I could do it,” I said. “But I’d rather not.” My father had died as well as theirs, after all. But just in case, I had tossed my prayer book and Bible into my bag, and knew where I could borrow an alb. I did not tell her that.
Long silence. “How much would it cost to hire a preacher?” she asked. None of my brothers had any money; just to make the trip incurred financial hardship for both Caretaker and Youngest.
“I’ll take care of finding someone,” I said. In another post, I mentioned what I did to cover the graveside service.
On arrival to my Missouri hometown, Caretaker detailed what the plans were. Meet with the funeral director on Sunday afternoon, then graveside service on Monday morning. That way we could leave Sunday morning and return Monday night. I wanted to look around a day; the area held pleasant childhood memories. But Caretaker and Only Son had to get back to their jobs so that was impossible.
The six hour drive to central Arkansas was lovely. The trees in the Ozark Mountains were transforming from summer green to autumn scarlet, just gorgeous. While admiring the scenery, I reveled in the rare alone time with Only Son. Before my mother died, we had not had time for just the two of us in nine years. It took the death of my parents for us to have the space to reconnect.
The meeting with the funeral director did not take long. Just as Dad had said, everything was arranged and paid. We gasped when the funeral director pointed out how much all of the services would cost today had Dad not made the arrangements in 1991--triple what he had paid! (Now I’m convinced that pre-need is the way to go.) Fortunately I had a favorite photo of Dad with me; the funeral director scanned it for the service leaflet. Only Son brought a long sleeved white shirt to dress the body in; my brothers brought Dad’s favorite tie and slacks. There was nothing more for us to do.
Only Son and I decided to poke around a bit, while Caretaker and Youngest drove back to the motel. We drove through the then brand new subdivision where the pre-school me had lived. Amazing, I thought, how much a place can change in almost fifty years. Amazing how much a person can, too.
The big shock came when we drove past the house that my grandfather had had especially designed and built for him and his wife in the mid 1950s. They were proud of that house and its blue fescue lawn, and worked hard to keep it all a showcase. Many times they won the local garden club’s Yard of the Month. Even in 1989 at the time of my last visit, it remained pristine.
When we drove around the corner, past the well manicured lawns of the neighbors, I asked Only Son, “Where’s the house?” Then I realized that the dump with trash stuffed to the carport ceiling and the sagging, rotted fence was the place on which Grandad once had lavished such attention. The whitewash slapped onto the once lovely cedar siding was the final insult. No other house around was in such sad shape. Surely my grandfather was spinning in his grave.
Any appetite for further sight seeing suddenly left me. We returned to the motel in silence.
The next day I hopped into the car for the day and a half trip back to Missouri, only six weeks after I had been there for Mom’s non-funeral. Caretaker told me that Dad’s body already was on its way to Arkansas and a service would be either that weekend or the following Monday. I needed to hurry.
Only Son already had agreed to drive with me to Arkansas. I needed his support; besides, he had lived with my parents during his freshman year of college, and had fond memories. Two of my brothers, Caretaker and Youngest, would drive in another car. No one else could afford the short notice plane fare or get off work long enough to make the trip. We hated that so few of us would be there. Dad deserved more.
Immediately following Mom’s death, Dad discussed his own wishes for his "mortal remains". “I’ve got it all arranged,” he said. “Everything is paid for. Call John Doe Funeral Home, and they’ll take care of everything. I don’t want a full service, but I would like some prayers said before I’m buried. And I want some of your mother’s ashes in the coffin with me.”
As I drove, I thought, “A few prayers before I'm buried...” Yikes, who would do that? Apparently reading my mind, Caretaker’s wife called my cell phone (I had my headset on just in case).
“Youngest says you are far enough along in your religious studies to say the prayers Dad wanted. Are you?” she asked.
“Well, I could do it,” I said. “But I’d rather not.” My father had died as well as theirs, after all. But just in case, I had tossed my prayer book and Bible into my bag, and knew where I could borrow an alb. I did not tell her that.
Long silence. “How much would it cost to hire a preacher?” she asked. None of my brothers had any money; just to make the trip incurred financial hardship for both Caretaker and Youngest.
“I’ll take care of finding someone,” I said. In another post, I mentioned what I did to cover the graveside service.
On arrival to my Missouri hometown, Caretaker detailed what the plans were. Meet with the funeral director on Sunday afternoon, then graveside service on Monday morning. That way we could leave Sunday morning and return Monday night. I wanted to look around a day; the area held pleasant childhood memories. But Caretaker and Only Son had to get back to their jobs so that was impossible.
The six hour drive to central Arkansas was lovely. The trees in the Ozark Mountains were transforming from summer green to autumn scarlet, just gorgeous. While admiring the scenery, I reveled in the rare alone time with Only Son. Before my mother died, we had not had time for just the two of us in nine years. It took the death of my parents for us to have the space to reconnect.
The meeting with the funeral director did not take long. Just as Dad had said, everything was arranged and paid. We gasped when the funeral director pointed out how much all of the services would cost today had Dad not made the arrangements in 1991--triple what he had paid! (Now I’m convinced that pre-need is the way to go.) Fortunately I had a favorite photo of Dad with me; the funeral director scanned it for the service leaflet. Only Son brought a long sleeved white shirt to dress the body in; my brothers brought Dad’s favorite tie and slacks. There was nothing more for us to do.
Only Son and I decided to poke around a bit, while Caretaker and Youngest drove back to the motel. We drove through the then brand new subdivision where the pre-school me had lived. Amazing, I thought, how much a place can change in almost fifty years. Amazing how much a person can, too.
The big shock came when we drove past the house that my grandfather had had especially designed and built for him and his wife in the mid 1950s. They were proud of that house and its blue fescue lawn, and worked hard to keep it all a showcase. Many times they won the local garden club’s Yard of the Month. Even in 1989 at the time of my last visit, it remained pristine.
When we drove around the corner, past the well manicured lawns of the neighbors, I asked Only Son, “Where’s the house?” Then I realized that the dump with trash stuffed to the carport ceiling and the sagging, rotted fence was the place on which Grandad once had lavished such attention. The whitewash slapped onto the once lovely cedar siding was the final insult. No other house around was in such sad shape. Surely my grandfather was spinning in his grave.
Any appetite for further sight seeing suddenly left me. We returned to the motel in silence.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Funerals, Part I
(This is the first of probably three installments about the experience of my dad's funeral with its context. Thanks for humoring me.)
“I feel much better after seeing Dad in his coffin. He looked really good,” I said as I steered my car into freeway traffic.
“Why did it make you feel better to see Dad when he was dead?”
I had just picked up my brother Law Enforcer at the airport, two days after our father’s funeral. We were on the interstate heading back to the old hometown.
“After all,” he continued, “Nothing was there except a body. He was gone. Why did you have to see him in his coffin? Why drive all the way to Arkansas for his funeral? He didn’t know.”
No one had ever asked me questions like that. The importance of a funeral was something I never had questioned myself. Law Enforcer is a lawyer, though, and likes to make people think.
After a pause, I said, “Maybe it is because I’ve seen so many other peoples’ dead parents. I just needed to see my own.” The number of dead bodies I have seen in a thirty year nursing career spent in ICU, oncology and hospice number well over a hundred.
Law Enforcer nodded. “That makes sense.” Then we noticed we were on the wrong highway; I missed the exit while pondering his question. That conversation was over.
When Mom had died, Taciturn and I were unable to get there in time. The family members who were within ten minutes of the hospital had the honor of being present when she died. Family and friends who lived within an hour were able to view her body before it was removed to the crematorium. The rest of us were out of luck.
Mom had made it clear she wanted no sort of memorial. “Too much fuss,” she said, and Dad honored her wishes. But at dinner a couple of days after she died, something was off kilter. Was Mom just on vacation? That is what it felt like. Without a final, ritualized goodbye, I was not convinced that my mother really was dead. The only thing that seemed different at dinner was the glazed, sad look that passed through my father’s eyes.
“What is it, Dad?” A silly question, but I asked it anyway.
He shook his head as he returned to the present. “I miss my wife.”
We knew Dad was lonely, so my brothers and I called at least weekly. We worried that something would happen during the six hours a day he would be alone while everyone in the house was at work or school. Dad promised us he would get a cell phone to use in case he fell. Seeking another way to ensure he was well, I asked him if he would be interested in video chat on Skype. Dad was enthusiastic about the idea. I made a mental note to call Caretaker brother, who lived with him, to see if a webcam would work with Dad’s ancient computer.
But Caretaker called me first. He found Dad’s body on the floor between the wall and his bed when he arrived home early to take him for a doctor’s appointment.
Dad missed his wife so much that he could live only two months without her.
“I feel much better after seeing Dad in his coffin. He looked really good,” I said as I steered my car into freeway traffic.
“Why did it make you feel better to see Dad when he was dead?”
I had just picked up my brother Law Enforcer at the airport, two days after our father’s funeral. We were on the interstate heading back to the old hometown.
“After all,” he continued, “Nothing was there except a body. He was gone. Why did you have to see him in his coffin? Why drive all the way to Arkansas for his funeral? He didn’t know.”
No one had ever asked me questions like that. The importance of a funeral was something I never had questioned myself. Law Enforcer is a lawyer, though, and likes to make people think.
After a pause, I said, “Maybe it is because I’ve seen so many other peoples’ dead parents. I just needed to see my own.” The number of dead bodies I have seen in a thirty year nursing career spent in ICU, oncology and hospice number well over a hundred.
Law Enforcer nodded. “That makes sense.” Then we noticed we were on the wrong highway; I missed the exit while pondering his question. That conversation was over.
When Mom had died, Taciturn and I were unable to get there in time. The family members who were within ten minutes of the hospital had the honor of being present when she died. Family and friends who lived within an hour were able to view her body before it was removed to the crematorium. The rest of us were out of luck.
Mom had made it clear she wanted no sort of memorial. “Too much fuss,” she said, and Dad honored her wishes. But at dinner a couple of days after she died, something was off kilter. Was Mom just on vacation? That is what it felt like. Without a final, ritualized goodbye, I was not convinced that my mother really was dead. The only thing that seemed different at dinner was the glazed, sad look that passed through my father’s eyes.
“What is it, Dad?” A silly question, but I asked it anyway.
He shook his head as he returned to the present. “I miss my wife.”
We knew Dad was lonely, so my brothers and I called at least weekly. We worried that something would happen during the six hours a day he would be alone while everyone in the house was at work or school. Dad promised us he would get a cell phone to use in case he fell. Seeking another way to ensure he was well, I asked him if he would be interested in video chat on Skype. Dad was enthusiastic about the idea. I made a mental note to call Caretaker brother, who lived with him, to see if a webcam would work with Dad’s ancient computer.
But Caretaker called me first. He found Dad’s body on the floor between the wall and his bed when he arrived home early to take him for a doctor’s appointment.
Dad missed his wife so much that he could live only two months without her.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Frustration
Imagine an old time author, one who used a typewriter. Imagine that person hard at work, trying to compose an essay or an article but unable to find the right words, with crumbled sheets of paper all over the floor.
While trying to write the first essay about the time that surrounded my dad’s passing, I feel much the same. A sentence appears on the computer screen. I read it, groan, and delete. “Whiny”, I say to myself. “Too self absorbed.” Type some more. Even worse. Delete, delete.
Maybe the process of writing is more important than the potential product? Even if I can’t get something written that is fit for mass consumption, maybe I am purging myself of the angst that has beset me since Mom died in August. Yet there are insights I feel an urgent need to share. The writing must continue until I can get it right.
Also I realized maybe I should choose another subject for the first essay. Maybe it is a little too personal right now. If I switch to another of the myriad ideas I have, perhaps the right words would come more easily. Hmm.
What has hindered me in this is the injury to my knee which is so painful I must take strong pain meds. I am sure that my mind is sufficiently fogged up that words that normally come, do not. Physical therapy starts next week. Hopefully I can take less of the medication as my knee gets better. Just one more thing.
I’m really trying not to be whiny.
While trying to write the first essay about the time that surrounded my dad’s passing, I feel much the same. A sentence appears on the computer screen. I read it, groan, and delete. “Whiny”, I say to myself. “Too self absorbed.” Type some more. Even worse. Delete, delete.
Maybe the process of writing is more important than the potential product? Even if I can’t get something written that is fit for mass consumption, maybe I am purging myself of the angst that has beset me since Mom died in August. Yet there are insights I feel an urgent need to share. The writing must continue until I can get it right.
Also I realized maybe I should choose another subject for the first essay. Maybe it is a little too personal right now. If I switch to another of the myriad ideas I have, perhaps the right words would come more easily. Hmm.
What has hindered me in this is the injury to my knee which is so painful I must take strong pain meds. I am sure that my mind is sufficiently fogged up that words that normally come, do not. Physical therapy starts next week. Hopefully I can take less of the medication as my knee gets better. Just one more thing.
I’m really trying not to be whiny.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The New Normal
“You can get back to normal life now,” Only Son told me Monday as I left his house to start the day and a half trip back to South Dakota.
But just over two weeks ago I joined the ranks of middle aged orphans. Normal life is not what it once was. To learn how to live into this new normal is the task at hand.
The trip to bury my father and then to begin to deal with the disposal of my parents’ estate was, well, interesting. A lot of events and conversations happened during these past two weeks, not all of it bloggable but all of it rich. Pondering this time as I drove, I realized that I have lots of unpacking to do—and not just clothes.
Part of me feels freer than I have in years. That itself is worthy of exploration; it is such a surprise.
Episcogranny will have a new format for a while. I usually write chronologically about events that happen in my life. As I start to unpack the myriad events of the two weeks immediately following the death of my father, I will organize posts by topics or concepts. Some titles that immediately spring to mind include Refuge, Revolution, and Charity. This series will have at least four or five different posts, perhaps more.
At least I’ll actually blog.
But just over two weeks ago I joined the ranks of middle aged orphans. Normal life is not what it once was. To learn how to live into this new normal is the task at hand.
The trip to bury my father and then to begin to deal with the disposal of my parents’ estate was, well, interesting. A lot of events and conversations happened during these past two weeks, not all of it bloggable but all of it rich. Pondering this time as I drove, I realized that I have lots of unpacking to do—and not just clothes.
Part of me feels freer than I have in years. That itself is worthy of exploration; it is such a surprise.
Episcogranny will have a new format for a while. I usually write chronologically about events that happen in my life. As I start to unpack the myriad events of the two weeks immediately following the death of my father, I will organize posts by topics or concepts. Some titles that immediately spring to mind include Refuge, Revolution, and Charity. This series will have at least four or five different posts, perhaps more.
At least I’ll actually blog.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tribute to My Parents
Peeking at my father's obit yesterday, I ran across this wonderful essay written by a childhood friend of my Law Enforcement brother. I was already out of the house during the time period described, but I still lived close and remember how happy my parents were at this time in their lives. Parentheses and italics mine.
N and B E were like a second set of parents to a couple of us kids from the S-L clan. As children, we practically lived at their house after school, on weekends, in the summer. We remember regularly knocking on that big solid wooden door every afternoon, and every weekend morning, about as early as we figured they'd accept us. Mr. E almost invariably answered the door.
"Hey, beeb, shoot to me," he'd say, his right hand outstretched for our exaggerated, ritual handshake.
"Shake the hand that shook the hand of dear old dad, amen brother, got new glasses, M passed the test, shot a chicken, killed a hen, good ole' brother Ben." It was always the same; we must have done it a thousand times, along with the dead-fish handshake, the politicians' handshake, the lumberjack handshake.
We baked more cookies with Mrs. E than we did with our own mother, which is saying a lot, because we spent a lot of time in the kitchen with our mom. RCE was my best friend; PME was (my brother's) best friend. So we spent a lot of time over there. And the E family always welcomed us as if we were family, too.
(My brother) and I, and our brothers, wish the Es solace. N and B were a blessing in our lives and in many others'. We'll never forget them. Nor will we forget the lifelong frienships we forged during the countless hours we spent in their home and among their family. We might not see you much, but we think about you all the time.
A lovely reminder of happier times. This was, as my Caretaker brother said, "kickin'."
N and B E were like a second set of parents to a couple of us kids from the S-L clan. As children, we practically lived at their house after school, on weekends, in the summer. We remember regularly knocking on that big solid wooden door every afternoon, and every weekend morning, about as early as we figured they'd accept us. Mr. E almost invariably answered the door.
"Hey, beeb, shoot to me," he'd say, his right hand outstretched for our exaggerated, ritual handshake.
"Shake the hand that shook the hand of dear old dad, amen brother, got new glasses, M passed the test, shot a chicken, killed a hen, good ole' brother Ben." It was always the same; we must have done it a thousand times, along with the dead-fish handshake, the politicians' handshake, the lumberjack handshake.
We baked more cookies with Mrs. E than we did with our own mother, which is saying a lot, because we spent a lot of time in the kitchen with our mom. RCE was my best friend; PME was (my brother's) best friend. So we spent a lot of time over there. And the E family always welcomed us as if we were family, too.
(My brother) and I, and our brothers, wish the Es solace. N and B were a blessing in our lives and in many others'. We'll never forget them. Nor will we forget the lifelong frienships we forged during the countless hours we spent in their home and among their family. We might not see you much, but we think about you all the time.
A lovely reminder of happier times. This was, as my Caretaker brother said, "kickin'."
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Trip to Bury My Father
Sixteen years have passed since the last time I was in Arkansas. I went to Searcy last to see my grandfather's sister, who then was the only survivor of her family of origin. During that trip, she gave me a tour of the old Searcy of importance to my family. The Eubanks went back in that town to the 1890s. My great-grandfather at one time was superintendent of schools, my grandfather developed into a successful businessman after some youthful flailing. My father fully intended to raise his family there, just as the two generations before him.
He did not count on the meddling influence of his step-mother, who treated my father's wife (my mother) like poor white trash. Dad stood silent. Eventually, when I was five, my mother told my father that either "we move, or I move." He got the message and moved us to Hot Springs AR in 1962, then in 1966, up to Missouri where we stayed.
Tomorrow my brothers, Only Son, and I will make the seven hour drive to Searcy AR to bury our father on Monday. Unlike Mom, he opted to have some prayers said at his graveside. In that area of the country, I didn't want to take a chance with a rent-a-preacher as my family doesn't need an ambush at the committal ceremony. Thankfully, the Rev Patrick Barker of Trinity Episcopal Church in Searcy agreed to perform the Committal from the Book of Common Prayer. We will meet with him probably just before.
Back to my grandfather. We visited a lot, and I continued to visit as a young married woman with my then husband and Only Son. My step grandmother died in 1988 after a long goodbye caused by Alzheimer's. She was one of the most hateful people I have met to this day, and although her funeral was well attended, she was not mourned. She had driven so much of our family away (shades of the Angry White Man) that I had not seen my grandfather in a few years before she went into the nursing home. Grandad seemed to be liberated by her death: "I can repair my family!" So we now adult grandchildren resumed the frequent (as our jobs would allow) treks to Arkansas with our children, and the old man loved it.
In 1989 I had some time between jobs, so I spent a week with Grandad in Searcy. He was in the hospital after prostate surgery. We had lovely, sage conversation and my idea of him as one of the best men I've ever known resumed. I had to leave after a week to complete my move and start my new job. He seemed to be doing well; my great-aunt had hired a new caretaker, who seemed very sweet, and of course the great-aunt was there, so I had no problems leaving.
Grandad came home from the hospital, sat down in his favorite chair, and died. I had just gotten to my parents' house from Searcy the day before. We all had commitments and could not attend his funeral. Dad went alone to bury his father.
So tomorrow we return to Searcy to bury our father. He had not been back since his father's funeral, and had not lived there for almost fifty, yet he felt called to seek his final rest there. Family was the pull back. Family will take him home.
He did not count on the meddling influence of his step-mother, who treated my father's wife (my mother) like poor white trash. Dad stood silent. Eventually, when I was five, my mother told my father that either "we move, or I move." He got the message and moved us to Hot Springs AR in 1962, then in 1966, up to Missouri where we stayed.
Tomorrow my brothers, Only Son, and I will make the seven hour drive to Searcy AR to bury our father on Monday. Unlike Mom, he opted to have some prayers said at his graveside. In that area of the country, I didn't want to take a chance with a rent-a-preacher as my family doesn't need an ambush at the committal ceremony. Thankfully, the Rev Patrick Barker of Trinity Episcopal Church in Searcy agreed to perform the Committal from the Book of Common Prayer. We will meet with him probably just before.
Back to my grandfather. We visited a lot, and I continued to visit as a young married woman with my then husband and Only Son. My step grandmother died in 1988 after a long goodbye caused by Alzheimer's. She was one of the most hateful people I have met to this day, and although her funeral was well attended, she was not mourned. She had driven so much of our family away (shades of the Angry White Man) that I had not seen my grandfather in a few years before she went into the nursing home. Grandad seemed to be liberated by her death: "I can repair my family!" So we now adult grandchildren resumed the frequent (as our jobs would allow) treks to Arkansas with our children, and the old man loved it.
In 1989 I had some time between jobs, so I spent a week with Grandad in Searcy. He was in the hospital after prostate surgery. We had lovely, sage conversation and my idea of him as one of the best men I've ever known resumed. I had to leave after a week to complete my move and start my new job. He seemed to be doing well; my great-aunt had hired a new caretaker, who seemed very sweet, and of course the great-aunt was there, so I had no problems leaving.
Grandad came home from the hospital, sat down in his favorite chair, and died. I had just gotten to my parents' house from Searcy the day before. We all had commitments and could not attend his funeral. Dad went alone to bury his father.
So tomorrow we return to Searcy to bury our father. He had not been back since his father's funeral, and had not lived there for almost fifty, yet he felt called to seek his final rest there. Family was the pull back. Family will take him home.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Two Months and Two Days
Since Mom passed away. Today my brother left work early to take our dad to the doctor for his bronchitis, and found him dead on the floor. He was clutching a 2 litre bottle of Diet Pepsi, his favorite drink. The coroner said that he probably had a heart attack and died instantly. If he had to die, instantly is good.
He will be buried in Searcy, AR, his hometown, in the Eubanks family plot. Not sure when that will happen, probably Saturday. I will leave tomorrow. I'll meet Only Son and take him with me. Poor Only Son has lost three of his four grandparents in 2 months and 2 days. He is grieving big time.
Like my caretaker brother said, at least Dad isn't scared anymore. Dad had such horrible issues with mental illness. I can just imagine God stroking his head to calm him down.
But damn, I'll miss him. RIP, Daddy.
He will be buried in Searcy, AR, his hometown, in the Eubanks family plot. Not sure when that will happen, probably Saturday. I will leave tomorrow. I'll meet Only Son and take him with me. Poor Only Son has lost three of his four grandparents in 2 months and 2 days. He is grieving big time.
Like my caretaker brother said, at least Dad isn't scared anymore. Dad had such horrible issues with mental illness. I can just imagine God stroking his head to calm him down.
But damn, I'll miss him. RIP, Daddy.
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