They not only pulled Dad’s feeding tube, but they’re not hydrating him either. His doctor says the research shows it’s not more painful, and in his case, it’s an advantage in that it speeds up his dying. He could die within the next few days, or could linger a week or more.
So yesterday I asked the nurse to leave the room so I could talk to him. I first took his head in my hands, looked him right in the eyes and yelled into his face, “Dad, you’re dying! They pulled your tubes! No more food! No more water! No more meds! There’s still time to pull out of this if you want!”
Nothing. So I said an Our Father and Hail Mary, not for me, but hoping that it might cut through his fog. I was startled when I got to the end of the Hail Mary, where it says “…pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” It never occurred to me that that line would be relevant. I said to him, “Dad, hear that? ‘at the hour of our death!’ This is that hour for you, Pappy. So wake up!”
His whole face contorted and then froze in a grimance for about 30 seconds. I thought for a moment that he was going to scream or cry or at least moan. But then his eyes closed, the grimace turned into a yawn, and he went back to sleep. Shit. Only in the movies, I guess.
I figured this might be the last time I’d see him alive, so I’d better have a little heart-to-heart. I said, “Dad, I’m glad I made my peace with you years ago. I lost my fear of you when we went toe to toe, screaming at each other in the driveway over whether you needed to lock up your guns when my kids visited. I know you had a rough childhood and so I understand a little of what your problems were about. I’ve felt your love for me, despite your rejections and put-downs. And it feels good to know that you think I’ve been a good dad to my kids. I’m also grateful to you for my love of thunderstorms and blizzards, fireworks, Lake Superior, motorcycles, and politics. Thanks, Dad. I’ll always be your Storp” (‘Storp’ was our inside joke. He used to call me ‘Sport’ and one year, in a birthday or father’s day card, I misspelled the signature.)
I thought I would cry talking to him like this but I didn’t. I guess the sobbing I did a few years ago over old hurts and new rejections did the job.
I am sad, though. I’m sad for him, that he missed out on so much of the good things in life, including a decent relationship with me and my family. I’m sad that my kids have missed out on a relationship with one of their grandpas, one that might have given them more insight into me as their dad, as well as an interesting one in its own right. And I’m sad for me, that I didn’t get to enjoy more friendship, more nurturing, more time with him. I’ve often fantasized what it would be like to have him pull me close, or just put my head in his lap and caress my face and hair. I do have one memory as a kid, when I had a fever and woke up with nightmares. He came and sat by my bed and told me how he used to have nightmares with his fevers as a kid, too. It’s a nurturing snapshot I keep in my head.
So I’m a lot luckier than a lot of guys. I do know my dad loves me, and I’ve made sense of why it was hard for him to show it. And for now, that seems more than enough. And now as I write this, the tears come.