28 June 2014

The Tree at Fort Harrison

Hiya Dad,

            Losing you is beyond words, but I will try.  The entire week was surreal; the roller coaster that is life support and doctors and wishing and praying and accepting cannot be described.  Being there for Mom, being the one who has been here for you both, made all of it both harder and easier.  Harder because I am the one "child" who lives here, I knew I would see and feel you everywhere in my daily life, and I am the one who has been and will be with Mom the most.  Easier because I knew how you felt about your last few years, and I was with you when Mom called 911 for the ambulance.  Dad, I know.  I know you did not want the ambulance.  Even then you could not speak, but you gave me that look, that "don't you dare" look, and I said, "But Dad she's not ready."  And your look changed; you knew.  You knew you had to go to the hospital, not because there was any chance for you, but for Mom, because she was not ready to lose you.  You knew you had to go for Jim, for Phil, for Jamine ~ for all of them to have time to come, to say goodbye.  I held your hands, and you kept squeezing my hands as we looked steadily into each other's eyes for those final endless seconds, really only a few minutes ~ steady so steady, and I just kept telling you, "I love you so much Dad, Aly loves you, Johnny loves you, Mom and I will be with you every step of the way, it's ok, it's ok, I love you."  I just kept saying that over and over, and your eye was fixed upon me, so clear, so firm, with so much love and total understanding.  Then, very suddenly, you were just gone.  I knew you were gone, I knew your body was mechanically continuing, but I knew the stroke's damage was too much.  I could not tell Mom, when she came into the room, saying, "they're on their way, they're coming."  I just said ok.  I knew that you and I had just made a pact: you would endure all the indignities and Hell of however long it took on life support; I would endure helplessly watching you go through whatever was to come, and I would endure helplessly watching Mom come to accept and let you  go.  Dad, you and I held up our ends of that pact.  We did it.

            Jim flew out immediately; he had to leave and return ~ he had already committed to attending a medical conference in St Louis.  Poor Jim, being in the Navy, he has had very little time with you since he graduated from High School and went to the Naval Academy.  It was so clear he was not ready to lose you; it was so clear and so hard to watch.  When he left for the conference (he drove there and back, he was only gone two days), I thought he might become more ready, but when he returned Saturday, he was still trying to be so hopeful.  I think in so many ways, out of us four, it was hardest for him ~ as a doctor, he knew the prognosis; as a son, he could not accept.

            Phil came, every day.  You know Phil, he does not say much, but he knew, Dad, he knew that first day.  He is smart enough and strong enough to just let it all unfold as it had to, the roller coaster of Mom and Jim and Jamine and doctors hedging and hemming and hawing and all of it.  Having him there, silent in the corner, helped me more than I can say.  Gilda came with him that last day; I told Cris not to come that day, because I knew I would need him to be there for Aly and Johnny.  Cris sent me a text that said, "You are the strongest person I know.  I love you."  That message sustained me; he was there with me, helping me stay strong for you and for Mom.

            Yes, Jamine came, too, Dad, I know you knew she was there ~ I hope that pleased you; she has been so absent and so hateful for so many years.  I hope you were glad in the end that she was there. I tried to not fight with her, Dad, I really did, and I am so sorry that there were times when I failed in my efforts.  My own feelings got in the way, and I am sorry; I have no excuse except I was just near breaking at every second, and she knows how to push my buttons.  The important thing is that she was there, and you knew she was there.

            Last Monday, 23 June, everything changed.  I know that sounds melodramatic, but death changes everything, it just does.  There were definitely times I felt like I could not make it one more second.  Of course, we all endured.  Phil, Mom, and I endured the horribly creepy conversation with the "caring" people at St. Vincent's ~ the Palliative Care Team ~ honestly, you REALLY would've hated that, the nightmare of strangers asking Mom to "tell us a little bit about your husband; we like to get to know who we are helping."  Really??  Their job is to unplug machines and administer drugs to ease pain and passing.  What did they need to know about the man you were, in order to DO THEIR JOB?   Someday, I'll let that experience go, but it really was hard to sit there while my always-polite grief-stricken mother tried to cooperate and answer their questions.  I just wanted to scream: "You creepy unctuous jerks, you don't care and you don't need to KNOW.  Just tell us what the actual process is like, so we know what to expect and how to help Mom through it!"  But, I held my tongue, and eventually they did get to the descriptive part of their spiel.  They made it sound easy; it was anything but.

            Dad, you had the strongest heart.  All those years of riding my bike behind you as you ran your twenty-five mile weekend runs prepared me for the hard truth of that last day ~ I knew your heart would go on pumping, if you could breathe on your own.  The physical mechanisms in your poor body would go on for a while, god your heart was so strong.  I knew you would breathe hard like you used to when you ran, I knew it would be gruesome for Mom, I knew it would break us all.  We all knew what to expect; knowing what to expect does not always help.

            I know you know everything that happened that day; I know you know everything that happened that whole week, because you made sure we knew.  Waiting for the hospital staff to take you off of life support was its own Hell ~ it took them a few hours, god knows why.  In that time, somehow, you rallied enough to look at me and nod and let me know that you knew that Aly and Johnny had been there to say goodbye on Wednesday.  In that time, you rallied three times for Jim to answer his heartbroken question.  Three times, he asked. "Dad, it's Jimmy. I have to know. Do you want to stop fighting? Do you want this to be over?" and three times you answered, firmly nodding your head affirmatively, steadily looking into his eyes.  The first time, he completely broke down,  "ok Dad but that's not the answer I wanted."  You need to know, Dad, that Jim was perfection.  He is strong and wonderful and stubborn and he did what he HAD to do: he asked you his question two more times in the next hour and a half.  You rallied each time, you gave him the thrice-confirmation he needed, even though you knew it broke him a little each time you nodded.  You gave us all firm and clear instruction: to let you  go.  Forever, I am grateful for that incredible effort, forever I am so proud of you for giving that gift to Mom and Jim, to all of us.

            Dad, you ran that last race so hard, your final endurance run took almost three full hours.  I can't really talk about it too much; the first hour and a half was so hard, hearing your breathing, knowing you were leaving us.  Jim and I were on each side of the bed holding your hands when you truly went away and all that was left was your heart pumping, your body shutting down.  Jim looked at me and said, "I think he's gone." and started crying.  Dad, your strong heart went on for over an hour.  Mom was alone with you at the end, it was just the two of you, as it had to be.  You need to know, Dad, that Mom was perfection ~ she was brave, she was strong; all day, she told you over and over, "You go on ahead, Jim my darling, you wait for me in the cafeteria and this time, I'll find you."  She never faltered, Dad, not once.

            Of course, afterwards, we were in a "system."  Phil and I realized that neither of us, the two who were probably the most prepared for the longest time for your eventual death, neither of us had thought to "make preparations."  So while I was in the hallway calling Cris to ask him to tell Aly and Johnny (two phone calls I just could not make), poor Phil was in the hallway with me, on his phone calling mortuaries to arrange for someone to come get you, to arrange your cremation.  You need to know, Dad, that Phil was perfection; he did every hard thing with the most incredible grace and steadiness; he was simply Phil, totally and completely; he is so brave and amazingly tough and incredibly sweet. He chose a crematorium in Speedway, he went there the next day to finalize everything.  I told him I had to be the one to pick you up ~ I was your chauffeur, and I needed to bring you home.  He did not want me to do it because he said the place was depressing, but I insisted; it was always my job and I wanted to do it one last time.            

            Crazy things happen, Dad.  When I went to Speedway to get you Friday morning, the State had not yet sent back the death certificate, so they asked me if I could come back later in the afternoon.  They were so nice, Dad, really; you would not have minded them at all.  Of course, I said yes, so my day was in part driving back and forth to Speedway.  As it turned out, Johnny accompanied me that afternoon; I was not sure he should endure such an experience, but he insisted.  When we got there, they had to tell us that the death certificate was still not back, but they had sent a courier for it.  They offered us coffee, soft drinks, we declined.  One nice man told us there was a "Mug N Bun" just up the road ~ famous for something or other, and so Johnny and I decided to go ~ Dad, I'd never heard of the chain, so was completely surprised to find out that it was a 1950s style carhop drive up place. Johnny got a root beer float; of course he did ~ you were there with us, weren't you?  I knew then why he went with me; it was perfection.

            We went back to the crematorium, and all was ready.  The lady asked if I knew how to fold your flag; I had to say I did not.  She said, "no problem, one of our guys is a Veteran too and he folds the flags for families ~ it'll just take a moment." Dad, you should know that never did I expect to feel comforted by the people at a crematorium, but they were a comfort; Phil chose a perfect place to take care of you.  As Johnny and drove you home that last time, we actually felt good, we actually felt happy in a way, so clearly were you still with us.

            Today, Dad, we honored your wishes and took your ashes to that tree at Fort Harrison.  Honestly, none of us want you to be there "forever".  We know, the tree was at the finish line of that race that ended on the golf course ~ the Fort Harrison Family Fun Day race that you won, beating out all the uber-fit soldiers half your age, but really, it seems to us such a crazy place for you to choose. Fort Harrison is now a state park; the golf course is now public ~ how could we leave you there? But, we did.  It was unbearably sad.  Jim held it together as best he could, so hard for me to watch him.  Charlie was all dressed up for you; Jamine and Emmy were there.  Phil and Gilda brought Charlotte; she was so sad and so sweet.  She was so Charlotte, noticing all the acorns scattered about.  None of us had thought ahead; Johnny scooped up a little bit of you and wrapped you in a dollar in his wallet; he was crying, saying you would go to Germany with him that way.  Aly did everything she could to be strong, to comfort me and her Baba, to hold Charlotte's hand and just be with her.  Dad, you should know ~ they were ALL perfection.

            I can't write any more, Dad.  Tomorrow I have to take Mom for Wee Charlie's train ride and Alexander's Ice Cream Parlor birthday party.  I can hardly bear it, because I was planning to take you both, I can hardly bear that you won't be with us.  I will have Cris and Aly and Johnny with me, and we will help Mom.  Because you would want us to go, and it is important to Charlie, we'll get through it. I do not know tonight how we will get through it, but we will.

Love,
Alys