Free At Last Or So I Thought
“I planned each charted course
Each careful step along the byway
Oh, and more, much more than this
I did it my way”
- Elvis Presley ~ My Way
I really wasn’t sure what to write after my last post. On the one hand, it was dark and depressing and I thought maybe I should lighten things up. On the other, it seemed odd to suddenly switch gears, almost like pretending that I didn’t actually publish the deep dark family secrets. That felt wrong, just like how we all used to pretend that my father wasn’t a raging lunatic and that everything was fine. I chose a quote from My Way because it was my father’s favorite song and was played at his funeral. That gives you a clue in which direction I decided to go. That’s right…even darker. Read on at your own risk or come back tomorrow after I have changed the subject completely.
My father had been extremely sick for years. His health began to fail due to complications from diabetes when I was 22 and he died when I was 29. Seven long, unlucky years for all of us. He was near death so many times during that seven year period that I lost count. He had a kidney transplant among countless other surgeries. My sister even saved his life once by performing CPR herself while waiting on an ambulance.
In the end, it was his decision to die. His body was rejecting his transplanted kidney, he needed heart surgery that was risky at best and he was living in a nursing home. He was 61 years old. He decided he didn’t want to go back on dialysis, have risky heart surgery or another kidney transplant. He was done. Or, so I heard.
I saw him regularly because my mother had a schedule for us to follow so that one of the three of us visited him every single day. Yes, at age 29, married, with a one year old baby at home and a full-time job, I followed the schedule. To not follow it was unthinkable.
He never spoke to me about his decision. Not once. He never said goodbye. Neither did I. Each time I saw him, we pretended everything was fine, just like always.
I was shocked when my mother first told me about his decision to stop all medical treatment. It took a few moments for the implications to sink in. No more treatment. He was actually going to die. She came over to my house, alone, to tell me. She delivered the news as calmly and as emotionless as any medical professional would. She is a nurse. Based on all of his medical issues and all the medications he would no longer be taking, the doctors estimated that it would be a matter of a few days. Of course, not one to go quietly, days turned into weeks. I firmly believed that he would out-live us all.
The weeks leading up to the end of my father’s life still seem surreal almost ten years later. My mother, always in control, began planning his funeral immediately. Yes, while he was still alive. The schedule increased in frequency. We all visited every day. I have a home video of his last semi-lucid day. It is truly disturbing to watch. There we were, in the grass outside of the nursing home, video taping what must have looked to outsiders like a normal family picnic. There was nothing normal about it, although we were all pretending that it was. He held my son for a while but it looks unnatural. It looks staged. He wasn’t interested. He was playing the part to the very end. The rest of us were talking and laughing as if it were any other day. We were playing our parts too.
One night my sister woke up abruptly. She was hysterical. She woke my mother up and said they had to go see my father right away. They went. They were in the room when he took his last breath. They heard it. It never occurred to either of them to call me. That hurt at first but I now realize that I wouldn’t have wanted to have been there. The hospice nurses had told us that anyone who was meant to be there would be. I believe that they were right.
It was finally over, or so I thought. I now know that feelings that get pushed down, buried and aren’t dealt with, do come back to haunt you. I also finally know that when they do, they are just feelings. They can’t harm you unless you ignore them. Facing the pain isn’t fun or easy but it is enlightening and liberating. I’m so close I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think I’m almost free.
Thanks for stopping by!
You have me wondering if there’s something in the water as my last two blog posts have been a bit emotional for people to read as well. But this particular post took me back to my own father’s death just a few years ago and I’m always glad to take the trip back because it reminds me how much my life is heading down that same path. Thanks for a wonderfully written piece.
Thank you so much. Your most recent post resonated with me as well and I joined the FB group.
This was a good post. It’s interesting though, how we have different takes on the same event.
I thought of that awkward video of his last lucid day as a present for mom to have. The only family video with everyone (except your hubby, where was he?). Pretending he wasn’t going to die at any moment. I’m glad we have it though.
All those scheduled trips to visit him…….I used to nap on his bed while he watched TV. We never really talked about anything. Now looking back…….I actually feel sorry for him. What a BS way to go. All alone in a nursing home full of crazy old people. It’s sad. Yes, when he was physically healthy he was insane. But I feel like after your oldest was born there was a different side to him. He wasn’t cured and at the time I hadn’t forgiven him, but just a different dimension to him. He was pitiful.
I always let hubby off the hook. I always told him he didn’t have to go. I didn’t even want to go.
I felt sorry for him too. He was pitiful and it was a horrible way to go. Therein lies my guilt over all the other feelings about him.
I think the only thing that I can understand about him is that he was CRAZY. I don’t think a sane/healthy/rational person would treat their kids like that. I think that’s why I’m not mad, and my hubby and I were talking about this last night……I think I have forgiven both of them. DH & I agree I have lost most of the anger that was boiling over this time last year. It’s a process. LOL
How ’bout we skip the work out and go straight for the booze?! The gym will still be there tomorrow! (Farmer’s Market?)
It is a process. He should tweet that (or is it twat – I keep getting confused). I’m happy that you’ve forgiven them and love that we can talk about it without fighting! Clearly, my process is much longer, more expensive and more public than yours.
Booze….tomorrow night? Farmer’s Market…YES!
Its interesting reading the comments, and how you’re both looking at this is such a supportive and reflective manner.
I think, but cant be certain, that no matter what you felt or now indeed feel, you are still going to grieve. When someone goes, even if you feel relieved, grief kicks in.
Im glad you’re feeling that you’re nearly free, that must be lovely xx
cyndi, thank you so much for sharing these difficult experiences — it must be so hard to put such emotional raw content out there. i am sorry for your loss — of course you are still grieving, you did not have the loving relationship with your father that you probably wanted so badly when you were young, and then you were cheated out of confronting him because he was ill.
i am sorry for him too — he never got to experience what it was like to have the love and respect and admiration from you, his daughter, and know how that could have enriched his life.
i wish you continued peace and healing, and a big hug and a beer
Cyndi,
I feel most sorry for him, that he never got to know or appreciate you, it is truly his loss. I think what you were told was true, that when a parent dies and you had a difficult relationship the grieving process is more difficult. At times I have felt angry, sad, and even relief that the stress of this relationship is no more. (Difficult to say, but true.) I am sorry for your loss, but happy for the freedom you have gained in your writing, you are truly talented.
Thanks Janina! Relief was the first thing I felt. Then guilt, of course.
And if I didn’t say it before…I’m sorry for your loss too.