This is what you said to me a few weeks before you were admitted to the hospital, a few weeks before you died.
I know you don't want to talk about the cancer, about your death, and I don't either. But, it's sort of the elephant in the room, isn't it? I sort of have to talk about it, Dad. I'm sorry.
We were g-chatting when you said it (IMing - remember? The first time I saw your name on my g-chat list, I immediately sent you an instant message. You responded. We chatted for a minute. And then you said "what is it we are doing here?" You didn't really understand what instant messaging was yet. It made me laugh so much.). You were never particularly loquacious on IM, but you would write now and then.
You had been having back pain. In mid-November, you and Mom were going to come into Brooklyn one Sunday to take me out to brunch for my birthday. You called that morning to ask me to find a place we could get a reservation that wasn't too far of a walk from my apartment. You had been having back spasms, you told me, and were in some pain.
This was the first I heard of the back pain. It was right around the beginning of it.
Don't come in this weekend if you're in pain, Dad, we can do it next weekend. You took me up on my offer. But next weekend was the same. Your back pain didn't seem to be going away.
And then Thanksgiving came the following weekend, and you seemed pretty fine to me. You still had pain, but you didn't make a big deal of it. You made soupy mashed potatoes and made sure everyone knew who had made them and complimented you on them. You were not shy about soliciting positive feedback.
That Saturday night, we went out to dinner downtown for my belated birthday celebration. You, me, Marc, and Mom. Megan had already headed back to Sea Cliff. In the parking lot, you tried to help out some folks who were having trouble figuring out the parking meter. You told them the meter stopped running at 10pm.
Inside the restaurant was warm and the booth we sat in was large and there was a fire going in the fireplace. Light danced around us. You wondered aloud if you had given the parking lot tourists the correct information. You ordered some sort of seafood extravaganza and had a martini, of course. Mom didn't want us to have appetizers, but we did anyway.
When the waiter tried to take your glass away before you were finished - you still had a sip, half a sip really, left in the glass - you stopped him sternly. The most stern you ever were was when a waiter or waitress tried to take a martini glass from you that still had an eighth of an ounce of liquid in it. You could draw water from a stone with those martini glasses. You always said the last bit was the best bit, and even claimed that if you let it sit there for long enough there would always magically be a little more left.
When we left the restaurant, we saw a sign that informed us that the parking meters actually ran until midnight. You had given the poor tourists false information, and you laughed heartily about it -- not maliciously at all, just good-naturedly.
God, I remember that laugh. Your laugh. So hearty. So full.
We went back to the house and had Carvel ice cream cake, a family favorite. We all had second pieces, except Mom.
That was the last time I saw you, Dad, before those days in the hospital a couple of weeks later. Can you believe it? I can't. It was a dinner like hundreds of other dinners we've had. I don't know if I ever told you, but it was really nice. I've been spending a lot of time out in Port Jeff this month, and I go on lots of walks when I'm out there. I keep finding myself back in the parking lot of that restaurant, thinking about your laugh.
Sometime later that week, I g-chatted you from work one day. I asked how your back was. I asked if you had gone to the doctor. "Don't worry about me," you said. "I'm fine." But, did you know that you weren't fine? That your body was so ravaged by cancer at that point that you had no chance of living through the month? How could you not have known? But, I don't think you did know, Dad. You seemed really surprised when the diagnosis came in, four days into your hospital stay, six days before you died.
I responded by saying that I wasn't worrying about you, just trying to empathize. You weren't anymore interested in my empathy than you were in my concern. You were never one to make a fuss about your problems. You were tough and stoic about a lot of things.
Don't worry about me, I'm fine. You had said. And I know it's not fair, but sometimes I feel really angry with you, Dad, because you lied to me. You weren't fine. You weren't fine at all.
Amy
I know you don't want to talk about the cancer, about your death, and I don't either. But, it's sort of the elephant in the room, isn't it? I sort of have to talk about it, Dad. I'm sorry.
We were g-chatting when you said it (IMing - remember? The first time I saw your name on my g-chat list, I immediately sent you an instant message. You responded. We chatted for a minute. And then you said "what is it we are doing here?" You didn't really understand what instant messaging was yet. It made me laugh so much.). You were never particularly loquacious on IM, but you would write now and then.
You had been having back pain. In mid-November, you and Mom were going to come into Brooklyn one Sunday to take me out to brunch for my birthday. You called that morning to ask me to find a place we could get a reservation that wasn't too far of a walk from my apartment. You had been having back spasms, you told me, and were in some pain.
This was the first I heard of the back pain. It was right around the beginning of it.
Don't come in this weekend if you're in pain, Dad, we can do it next weekend. You took me up on my offer. But next weekend was the same. Your back pain didn't seem to be going away.
And then Thanksgiving came the following weekend, and you seemed pretty fine to me. You still had pain, but you didn't make a big deal of it. You made soupy mashed potatoes and made sure everyone knew who had made them and complimented you on them. You were not shy about soliciting positive feedback.
That Saturday night, we went out to dinner downtown for my belated birthday celebration. You, me, Marc, and Mom. Megan had already headed back to Sea Cliff. In the parking lot, you tried to help out some folks who were having trouble figuring out the parking meter. You told them the meter stopped running at 10pm.
Inside the restaurant was warm and the booth we sat in was large and there was a fire going in the fireplace. Light danced around us. You wondered aloud if you had given the parking lot tourists the correct information. You ordered some sort of seafood extravaganza and had a martini, of course. Mom didn't want us to have appetizers, but we did anyway.
When the waiter tried to take your glass away before you were finished - you still had a sip, half a sip really, left in the glass - you stopped him sternly. The most stern you ever were was when a waiter or waitress tried to take a martini glass from you that still had an eighth of an ounce of liquid in it. You could draw water from a stone with those martini glasses. You always said the last bit was the best bit, and even claimed that if you let it sit there for long enough there would always magically be a little more left.
When we left the restaurant, we saw a sign that informed us that the parking meters actually ran until midnight. You had given the poor tourists false information, and you laughed heartily about it -- not maliciously at all, just good-naturedly.
God, I remember that laugh. Your laugh. So hearty. So full.
We went back to the house and had Carvel ice cream cake, a family favorite. We all had second pieces, except Mom.
That was the last time I saw you, Dad, before those days in the hospital a couple of weeks later. Can you believe it? I can't. It was a dinner like hundreds of other dinners we've had. I don't know if I ever told you, but it was really nice. I've been spending a lot of time out in Port Jeff this month, and I go on lots of walks when I'm out there. I keep finding myself back in the parking lot of that restaurant, thinking about your laugh.
Sometime later that week, I g-chatted you from work one day. I asked how your back was. I asked if you had gone to the doctor. "Don't worry about me," you said. "I'm fine." But, did you know that you weren't fine? That your body was so ravaged by cancer at that point that you had no chance of living through the month? How could you not have known? But, I don't think you did know, Dad. You seemed really surprised when the diagnosis came in, four days into your hospital stay, six days before you died.
I responded by saying that I wasn't worrying about you, just trying to empathize. You weren't anymore interested in my empathy than you were in my concern. You were never one to make a fuss about your problems. You were tough and stoic about a lot of things.
Don't worry about me, I'm fine. You had said. And I know it's not fair, but sometimes I feel really angry with you, Dad, because you lied to me. You weren't fine. You weren't fine at all.
Amy
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