This is what happened two months ago today, though it feels like two minutes or two hours ago.
I've already talked about the call from the hospital that came just before 5am, the one telling us to get up there to be with you, the one saying it was time. And I've talked about what happened later, in the hospital and at the funeral home, but this is what happened then, in those hours in that hospital room. Your hospital room.
When we went in, you were lying there as you had been the night before, but your breathing was slower and you didn't react to us. The screen that reported your oxygen levels and heart rate and all the other vital statistics that we (and you) had been so obsessively watching over the past ten days was showing your numbers as low, very low.
I don't know what I expected. The only time I'd ever been with someone when they died is when I had to put my cat Owen to sleep almost two years ago. The morning I woke up with him dying was another awful one; I knew he was dying the second I looked at him. I ran with him to the vet in my pajamas, handed him over and started weeping in the waiting room. Sitting on the plastic chairs with my face buried in my hands, a stranger came up and wrapped her arms around me, said she was sorry. The vet said that poor Owen had been minutes away from dying when I'd gotten there, but they gave him something to make him feel better temporarily.
Still, there was no choice left about what to do. They asked me if I wanted to be there when they put him down and at first I said I couldn't do it. I knew the vet pretty well at that point, I'd been in the hospital every day for nearly two weeks. He said Owen would want me to be there, that it would make it much easier for him if he felt safe and knew that he was with someone who loved him. And so I stayed, I held Owen while they shot him with whatever lethal injection they give to put animals to sleep. And he died in my arms, and it was awful, but I was so glad I had been there with him, and it was quick.
And, no, I don't think you are or were a cat, and I knew no one was actually "putting you to sleep," but I guess I thought it would be quicker, that's all. I thought we would get there and you would be dying right then and there, and it would be awful but quick. But it wasn't. We all sat around your bed crying, and holding your hands, and your arms, and your legs, and crying and sitting. Dad, I couldn't bear to look at you, it was too awful. Your breathing was so slow. And there you were, dying. And when do you ever want to watch someone die? I wouldn't want to watch my worst enemy die, let alone you. You, my beloved father. And we were all silent for so long, what felt like days. And I had to put my head down and rest it on my arm because I was bursting at the seams with discomfort, with lack of emotional endurance, with the inability to be there.
At least an hour went by like this, I think more. It was probably around 6:30am or 7am at that point, and Mom asked one of the nurses if they could bring in coffee. We had been woken up in the middle of the night, or so early in the morning that only you would have been naturally awake at that hour, and we had been sitting there with you for quite some time. Coffee is a physical necessity in the early hours of the morning on no sleep and all stress, and apparently death doesn't change that. On the one hand it seemed almost inappropriate to sit around and drink coffee while you lay dying, but on the other hand it seemed like the only way to survive.
I was reminded of a part in that Nabokov story, I don't remember which one, where a man is about to be executed, he is standing up there in front of the firing squad, or with his head in a noose, literally seconds away from death, and he adjusts the position of one of his legs. It's a simple and small adjustment that he can't help but make. The reality of his impending death does nothing to counteract the reality of the slight physical discomfort that he feels and must account for. And so it was with the coffee. And snot. How does a human being produce an endless supply of mucus while sobbing uncontrollably? I've produced so much snot these past few months, never more than sitting in my car in the parking lot of the hospital after I left you every night. Isn't mucous supposed to protect you from foreign bodies? Does it see sadness as a foreign body, is it trying to expel the sadness? Because it is impossible to cry for very long without attending to the snot, and it brings you back to the physical reality of your situation, the very absurdity and inconvenience of having a human body, no matter how caught up you may be in the emotional realm. And I'm sorry I thought abstractly of a Nabokov story while sitting there, but maybe that would make you happy. I was putting my education into practical use like you'd always hoped I would.
After the coffee, or before, I don't remember the order, things were so excruciating for me I did not think I could exist any longer. Of course I didn't want you to die, but it didn't really seem like you were alive anymore, and living in that grey area, in the throes of it, it was just too much. At that moment, I wanted it to be over. And of course now I think back and would live for days in that moment if it meant you were here and alive, just for a single second. But at the time it was unbearable, and then Marc saved me.
He broke the silence that had been going on for hours, what felt like days and months and years, and he said "Dad, I don't know if you can hear me right now, but I want to talk to you about my childhood and those times we went camping up at Lake Taconic." And he went on to talk about what those camping trips had meant to him, about what an amazing father you were, about how you shaped who he is as a person today. And at that time, in that moment, when he started to speak, breaking that unbearable dying silence, that was the strongest and bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do. I don't know if you heard him, and he couldn't save you, but I hope it at least made you feel something, some small twinge of relief and safety and love in some of your last moments.
Megan talked to you next and told you some of her favorite memories, and it was still like shattering glass every time someone said something in that silence, and still I was so thankful that they were talking to you, and helping you, and helping me. And eventually we just started talking, Dad, reminiscing about things in our family's past. I talked to you about a golf course on a sunny day, with bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds.
I thought thank god, thank god we are all here and he isn't alone, and thank god we are all touching him and holding his hands and I don't know if he even knows we are here but thank god we are here with him. I hope it helped you to know that you were with people who loved you.
I brought up a story that I'd heard many times before, but one that I'd specifically asked you to tell a few days earlier in the hospital when Jennifer had come to visit. I asked you to tell it because it made you happy, because you relished telling a good story, and because it lightened the mood, if only for a minute.
You had been running, or biking, or playing tennis, and you came home and you were really, really hungry. The kind of hunger that only comes around after a really good work out. You set to work building a masterpiece of a sandwich, really took your time with it, made it just right. You used to make fun of me for designing the perfect bite or taking ages to spread the butter on something exactly right, but you could be the same way about food. And that's how you were with this sandwich. Right as you were putting the finishing touches on it, the doorbell rang. You were only gone, only had your back turned, for half a second and then you realized -- oh noooo.
You turned around and there was Zoe, Zoe your favorite dog who could do no wrong, with half a sandwich hanging out of her mouth. She'd already devoured the first half. And when you told this story you would say that was the only time in your life that you were legitimately really mad at Zoe. When she stole your perfectly crafted sandwich. But you would be smiling and laughing as you said it, and you could see even when you were most mad at her, how much you loved her. And we were talking about this, and laughing, and it was then that you were gone.
And Aunt Terry said, he died while you all were sitting around talking about your family. And you did, you died while we were talking about dogs and sandwiches, and what could be more fitting?
And it was two months ago today, but it feels like two minutes, and it doesn't feel right. And I never want it to feel right. I miss you so much, Dad. I really do. I miss you so much. I wish there were other words I could use, but that's all I have. A whole lot of missing.
love amy
I've already talked about the call from the hospital that came just before 5am, the one telling us to get up there to be with you, the one saying it was time. And I've talked about what happened later, in the hospital and at the funeral home, but this is what happened then, in those hours in that hospital room. Your hospital room.
When we went in, you were lying there as you had been the night before, but your breathing was slower and you didn't react to us. The screen that reported your oxygen levels and heart rate and all the other vital statistics that we (and you) had been so obsessively watching over the past ten days was showing your numbers as low, very low.
I don't know what I expected. The only time I'd ever been with someone when they died is when I had to put my cat Owen to sleep almost two years ago. The morning I woke up with him dying was another awful one; I knew he was dying the second I looked at him. I ran with him to the vet in my pajamas, handed him over and started weeping in the waiting room. Sitting on the plastic chairs with my face buried in my hands, a stranger came up and wrapped her arms around me, said she was sorry. The vet said that poor Owen had been minutes away from dying when I'd gotten there, but they gave him something to make him feel better temporarily.
Still, there was no choice left about what to do. They asked me if I wanted to be there when they put him down and at first I said I couldn't do it. I knew the vet pretty well at that point, I'd been in the hospital every day for nearly two weeks. He said Owen would want me to be there, that it would make it much easier for him if he felt safe and knew that he was with someone who loved him. And so I stayed, I held Owen while they shot him with whatever lethal injection they give to put animals to sleep. And he died in my arms, and it was awful, but I was so glad I had been there with him, and it was quick.
And, no, I don't think you are or were a cat, and I knew no one was actually "putting you to sleep," but I guess I thought it would be quicker, that's all. I thought we would get there and you would be dying right then and there, and it would be awful but quick. But it wasn't. We all sat around your bed crying, and holding your hands, and your arms, and your legs, and crying and sitting. Dad, I couldn't bear to look at you, it was too awful. Your breathing was so slow. And there you were, dying. And when do you ever want to watch someone die? I wouldn't want to watch my worst enemy die, let alone you. You, my beloved father. And we were all silent for so long, what felt like days. And I had to put my head down and rest it on my arm because I was bursting at the seams with discomfort, with lack of emotional endurance, with the inability to be there.
At least an hour went by like this, I think more. It was probably around 6:30am or 7am at that point, and Mom asked one of the nurses if they could bring in coffee. We had been woken up in the middle of the night, or so early in the morning that only you would have been naturally awake at that hour, and we had been sitting there with you for quite some time. Coffee is a physical necessity in the early hours of the morning on no sleep and all stress, and apparently death doesn't change that. On the one hand it seemed almost inappropriate to sit around and drink coffee while you lay dying, but on the other hand it seemed like the only way to survive.
I was reminded of a part in that Nabokov story, I don't remember which one, where a man is about to be executed, he is standing up there in front of the firing squad, or with his head in a noose, literally seconds away from death, and he adjusts the position of one of his legs. It's a simple and small adjustment that he can't help but make. The reality of his impending death does nothing to counteract the reality of the slight physical discomfort that he feels and must account for. And so it was with the coffee. And snot. How does a human being produce an endless supply of mucus while sobbing uncontrollably? I've produced so much snot these past few months, never more than sitting in my car in the parking lot of the hospital after I left you every night. Isn't mucous supposed to protect you from foreign bodies? Does it see sadness as a foreign body, is it trying to expel the sadness? Because it is impossible to cry for very long without attending to the snot, and it brings you back to the physical reality of your situation, the very absurdity and inconvenience of having a human body, no matter how caught up you may be in the emotional realm. And I'm sorry I thought abstractly of a Nabokov story while sitting there, but maybe that would make you happy. I was putting my education into practical use like you'd always hoped I would.
After the coffee, or before, I don't remember the order, things were so excruciating for me I did not think I could exist any longer. Of course I didn't want you to die, but it didn't really seem like you were alive anymore, and living in that grey area, in the throes of it, it was just too much. At that moment, I wanted it to be over. And of course now I think back and would live for days in that moment if it meant you were here and alive, just for a single second. But at the time it was unbearable, and then Marc saved me.
He broke the silence that had been going on for hours, what felt like days and months and years, and he said "Dad, I don't know if you can hear me right now, but I want to talk to you about my childhood and those times we went camping up at Lake Taconic." And he went on to talk about what those camping trips had meant to him, about what an amazing father you were, about how you shaped who he is as a person today. And at that time, in that moment, when he started to speak, breaking that unbearable dying silence, that was the strongest and bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do. I don't know if you heard him, and he couldn't save you, but I hope it at least made you feel something, some small twinge of relief and safety and love in some of your last moments.
Megan talked to you next and told you some of her favorite memories, and it was still like shattering glass every time someone said something in that silence, and still I was so thankful that they were talking to you, and helping you, and helping me. And eventually we just started talking, Dad, reminiscing about things in our family's past. I talked to you about a golf course on a sunny day, with bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds.
I thought thank god, thank god we are all here and he isn't alone, and thank god we are all touching him and holding his hands and I don't know if he even knows we are here but thank god we are here with him. I hope it helped you to know that you were with people who loved you.
I brought up a story that I'd heard many times before, but one that I'd specifically asked you to tell a few days earlier in the hospital when Jennifer had come to visit. I asked you to tell it because it made you happy, because you relished telling a good story, and because it lightened the mood, if only for a minute.
You had been running, or biking, or playing tennis, and you came home and you were really, really hungry. The kind of hunger that only comes around after a really good work out. You set to work building a masterpiece of a sandwich, really took your time with it, made it just right. You used to make fun of me for designing the perfect bite or taking ages to spread the butter on something exactly right, but you could be the same way about food. And that's how you were with this sandwich. Right as you were putting the finishing touches on it, the doorbell rang. You were only gone, only had your back turned, for half a second and then you realized -- oh noooo.
You turned around and there was Zoe, Zoe your favorite dog who could do no wrong, with half a sandwich hanging out of her mouth. She'd already devoured the first half. And when you told this story you would say that was the only time in your life that you were legitimately really mad at Zoe. When she stole your perfectly crafted sandwich. But you would be smiling and laughing as you said it, and you could see even when you were most mad at her, how much you loved her. And we were talking about this, and laughing, and it was then that you were gone.
And Aunt Terry said, he died while you all were sitting around talking about your family. And you did, you died while we were talking about dogs and sandwiches, and what could be more fitting?
And it was two months ago today, but it feels like two minutes, and it doesn't feel right. And I never want it to feel right. I miss you so much, Dad. I really do. I miss you so much. I wish there were other words I could use, but that's all I have. A whole lot of missing.
love amy
No comments:
Post a Comment