20 June 2014 

Hiya Dad,

          Today I am turning 51 years old ~ or, as you would say, "entering my 52^nd year."  Yesterday was supposed to be my day to have our annual birthday lunch with you and Mom at your house.  I had lunch with Mom in the hospital cafeteria.  Jim and Phil and Jamine were there, too, so I know that would've made you really happy for us all to be together.  This morning, I didn't get your usual all caps "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!" email message, and I know that today I won't hear your voice say, "Happy Birthday" when I see you in a few hours.  I know these things, and they are hard things.  It was hard for me to call Aly and Johnny on Wednesday to come say goodbye to you, and it was hard for me to tell my brothers and my sister they better come.  It is hard for me to watch Mom beg you to "please Jim please get better and come back so we can go home."  All of those things are hard but this letter is not hard to write.  You know me; I have to write.  I have to write you this letter because last night as I drove home from the hospital, I passed the building that used to be the cowboy store where so long ago we bought my butterfly boots, and it made me cry. 

          I said goodbye to you on Wednesday, because that was "the day" it felt right for me to do that ~ you know that I feel like what is left here with us for these remaining weeks is not really you.  I believe you are already free, running mile after mile happily and fast on some River Road somewhere, beating your personal best as the somewhere sun bakes you brown.  That's what I believe.  Maybe that is a little easier for me to believe that than it is for my siblings because I am the one who lives nearest and I am the one who has seen you almost every day since your 2011 stroke.  It isn't easy for me, but maybe it is just a little bit easier than it is for Jim and Phil and Jamine, because I have been here with you. 

          We all, even Mom, and Cris and Aly and Johnny and Charlie, know you'd hate all this kind of hospital stuff, especially being hooked up to things and not being yourself.  But, but we all know we have to let the hospital process happen; we have to watch and wait and see if the doctors find any sign of cognitive function returning.  Yesterday, they told Mom that you had some greater reflexive response to stimuli and that it could be about three weeks before they can give a better estimate of what exactly "recovery" would be for you. They were careful to warn of all the risks between now and then, and they were careful to explain that there has yet been absolutely no sign of cognition, no command responses, and that any recovery would mean you would have no speech and no movement on your right side.  But, you know Mom, she does not believe them about that, really.  You know Mom ~ she has pinned her hopes on the positive.  She believes in you.  It is so hard for me to watch her. 

          So, even through Mom's hope and Jim's reliance on medical possibilities and Phil's silent pain and Jamine's shocked resignation, I know you are not really there.  Of course, I wish for you and all of us that you were totally free.  Two lawyers in the family and you never asked for a DNR, Dad, so we will go through this fully ~ we will be at your side every step of the way. 

          I go home from the hospital every night on our old roads, the ones on which you ran mile after mile after mile with me riding my bike behind you.  I can't list all the meaningful moments and things we shared over my lifetime, or thank you for everything you ever did for me, or even try to tell you all the reasons I love you.  You already know all of that stuff.  You probly know all of this stuff too, but I feel like saying these few things to you anyway, today, on my birthday. 

          In my lifetime, you and I argued, disagreed, disappointed, hurt, and devilled each other more times than I can count, over trivial and serious things, and especially since your 2011 stroke, and always always always my love for you and your love for me was there: it was over-under-through-between-encircling any negative anything.  I do know that fact, Dad, so don't think I don't.  Forever, I have our love, so forever I have you.  I have you, oddly enough, in Cris, because he stepped up and he loves tools and rocks like we do and he is everything you wanted for me and for Aly and Johnny.  I know I have you in Aly, and I know you are with her in her intellect and her humor and her love of films and reading and writing and school, and of course in her expertise and love of your childhood's beloved comics.  Our Aly Paly, who loves Sherlock Holmes and cheesecake as much as you do.  I know I have you in Johnny, and I know you are with him in his intelligence and his strength and how deeply he feels everything and his love of music and philosophy, and of course his expertise and love for your beloved languages.  Our Johnny, who loves the color orange and The Joker as much as you do.  Forever, love is over-under-through-between-encircling you and me and Cris and Aly and Johnny.  

          So, Dad, I will spend today, my birthday, with Mom ~ we two will be with you in the hospital.  I would not want to be anywhere else today than by her side.  I would not want to be anywhere else today but in your hospital room.  It is not the day we thought it would be, but it is still our day, we three.  In that room, I will hold your hand and I will read you this letter.  I will promise you that Mom will be okay, and I will tell you that Aly loves you so much and that Johnny knows you are having salty pistachios and really good beer right now.  I will thank you for my birthday, like I do every year.  I will tell you much I love you.  I will tell you that always always always, you are beloved by us, forever.

Love,

Alys