"If this is dying, it ain't half bad"
As usual, he
is outside sitting on the bright yellow bench in front of this house that has
been his home for 59 years. He is
partially hidden behind his beloved roses and a few shrubs and trees that need
a good pruning His home is red brick with big areas of single
paned windows bordered by white shutters. I wasn’t born in this house, but we moved in
when I was a year old. It is the only home I remember.
Today is
Tuesday, April 22, 2014. Our family has
been taking turns spending days and nights with Dad since he made the decision,
last month, to live out his days with hospice because of a heart valve that is
barely functioning. He is actually doing
so well right now that hospice is visiting just once a week. He loves people
being here and we make sure he eats, take inventory of his weight, mental
clarity and mutually appreciate this time we have together.
He sees me
arrive and slowly shuffles over to the car.
In his usual deep booming voice he says, “Hello dear, how are you
today?” “I’m good, Pop,” I reply, “and
how about you?” He meets me and we share
a hug.
For a while
now, this man who prided himself on being a “sharp” dresser, hasn’t really
cared much for the less important things that take up precious time. Today he is in a threadbare white undershirt;
jeans that need a tighter belt, and slippers that his feet swim in. His white hair is quite rebellious; although
I’m sure it had no opposition. His smile
is genuine and he’s upbeat and happy to be sharing time with me.
We sit on
the yellow bench together and he begins telling me about his roses. “That one there,” he points, “is a Barbara
Streisand and it has the most amazing lavender roses.” Barbara Streisand is one of his favorite singers,
his favorite song being “People”. He
continues sharing more about each rose and who gifted them to him, then he
tells me about the ones he bought special for my mom, who passed away in
1997. He gets emotional today, and I
feel the weight of these details being shared and the need to become the keeper
of the roses, and make sure this information is preserved. He has a much loved book titled “Roses –
How to Select, Grow and Enjoy” on his coffee table, sharing space with many
other books, unpaid bills and keepsakes. “Dad, could you draw a diagram of your
rose garden, and place the different roses in it with their names and how they
came to find a home there?” He laughs,
“You want me to do that?” “Absolutely,
Pop, I would love to have that information”.
I can tell that pleases him.
My dad is of
the opinion that “more is better” and you get the picture when you enter his
home. Every inch of wall space is filled
with decorative plates, pictures, beautiful paintings, and fake flowers. There isn’t an inch of space left. I gifted him a sign several years ago that
reads, “Elegant Clutter”. He has surrounded himself with everything he
loves. Statues of little kids take up
space on the floor, decorative plates of pugs and roses adorn the walls, and
pictures of his children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and knick knacks
cover every flat surface available. He loves his home. This is where he wants to live out his days.
Today he
wants to take me to Applebee’s, and have his favorite meal – their delicious oriental
chicken salad and French onion soup. But
we will need to eat at home today, because he has had a 3 pound weight gain
since yesterday. This is a red flag, so
we are waiting for a special medication to be delivered, for edema.
We go into the kitchen to eat at the cozy
table for two, as the dining table is covered with address books, stamps, and
cards in response to the “farewell” letter he sent to over 100 friends. He
loves getting the response mail and hearing from dear ones, some he has known
for over 80 years. In his letter he
tells about his condition, his choice of hospice, how his children and
grandchildren and other family members are with him 24/7 and ends it with “If this is dying, it ain’t
half bad.”
He eats a
good lunch of chicken noodle soup, two slices of toast and two cups of day old
coffee heated up in the microwave. Dad
has always been a coffee drinker and it doesn’t really matter if it is old,
fresh, weak or strong, as long as it’s hot!
We have a good conversation. “I’m not scared of dying, you know.” I feel he says this for my benefit even
though I know he would like it to be true.
But I don’t believe it. This
from a man who has always been known for his infectious laugh, his voracious
appetite for reading, his great love of people – especially his family, his
green thumb, his singing and love of music, his great joy of celebrating
anything with family, his role as mentor and friend to many in his
neighborhood, his published words, but mostly his zeal for living…for
life.
“Well, that is a good thing, Pop,
but it’s OK to be scared.” He starts to
cry. “I just love all these little great
grandchildren so, and I’m going to miss seeing them grow up and I want to be
able to see Asher read.”
After lunch
we go into the living room and he sits in his favorite chair; a blue overstuffed
worn recliner. We start talking about
the past and I decide to find some picture albums to aid our reminiscing. They are in a closet in his room, he
says. There is shelf after shelf lining
every wall in his room to somehow accommodate the 2,000 books he owns, stashed, shoved, stuffed and piled wherever is possible. His closet is packed with memorabilia, and
all his clothes: beautiful ties, the
most colorfully patterned shirts, dress pants and expensive shoes that he now
has no need for or interest in. At the
top of the closet are all his picture albums piled high. I bring down the ones with the most worn and
frail covers, indicating their age.
I sit on the
couch across from him and open the dusty albums showing him picture
after picture. What a great time we have
talking and laughing about photos and sharing memories that have faded but are
recaptured with an image. As time goes
by, I glance over to see that Dad has dozed off, only to open his eyes a moment
later and act like he has not missed a thing.
I need to
leave soon, to pick up grand kids. Bryan, my husband and Dad’s only son-in-law, will be coming over to spend the rest of the evening and over night. Dad loves Bryan. He didn’t always feel that way, but that is another
story. “I need to be leaving soon, Dad,”
I tell him. “Oh yes, you have to get
those grand-babies, don’t you?” With
great effort, he unfolds himself from the recliner and begins to cry. “I just want you to know how much I love
you.”
“I know Pops, and I love you so
much too,” We give one another a long lasting, teary embrace.
He walks me out to the car and stands at the
end of the driveway. My dad, unkempt, fragile, sweet, and filled with love, stands there
waving until I drive away and can no longer see him in my rear-view mirror, just
as he has always done.
Jessamyn, our
youngest daughter, stays overnight with Dad Wednesday, the 23rd. They have a wonderful time together. He shares with her the kindest of words from
his friends and later he sings her a hymn in the kitchen while she makes them
dinner.
In
remembering that night, Jessamyn says: it was a night of storytelling to the
point of tears…some brought on by tenderness, other ones absurdity. She loved
how they moved from talking about death, Grandma, religion and beliefs to
making up silly songs about Depends all in one long, heartfelt
conversation. “I wanted to stop time at
one point because he cracked himself up so hard and his laughter filled every
tiny thing up. Nights like this are the
truest kind.”
Sometime during the night she has a
dream. Someone is knocking at the door
and as she struggles to rise, she hears Dad telling her, “I’ll get it, it’s for
me.” So she goes back to sleep.
It was for my dad. He got his wish and passed peacefully in his
sleep that morning, in his bed, in his home where he has lived a full life for
almost 60 years.
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