See you on the other side

It seems we were wrong, or you were very good at putting on a brave face so we wouldn't be worried. Typical of you.

Even some of the nurses cried when you left us. You had captured the hearts of all the hospital staff caring for you by making them laugh, showing humor and cooperation through painful and difficult circumstances and events, and generally relating to them as human beings and individuals instead of professionals at your beck and call 24/7 and subject to the demands of a sick person. Your fears and frustrations you saved for expressing to your daughters, which is fitting, and we wouldn't have had it any other way.

I am so thankful for so many things....the nurses and their compassion, not just for you but for Sis and me, during the 2 weeks you were there and the aftermath of your passing; for the strength to do what we had to do and for what we now have to do; for the close proximity of the hospital so that we could be there in 5 minutes time.

I am most thankful that we had you for 81 years, Daddy...81 good years. Years that were full of ups and downs, arguments, hurt feelings, estrangement for a short time...but years also full of love, caring, laughter, good times, and times when you were there for me, showing up at the most unexpected times with an offer to take me to supper, a $20 bill just when I needed it most, and most memorably, during that first difficult Christmas after my marriage broke up, when I was broke, depressed and most definitely not in the holiday spirit. You were my Santa that year, showing up at my doorstep with a Christmas tree, decorations from your attic and money to buy Christmas gifts with. That was you Daddy. Doing things for your family without fanfare and fuss, quietly and matter-of-factly.

I'm carrying your glasses around with me, either in my purse or holding them in my hands. For some reason these simple, ordinary and slightly homely plastic glasses are a comfort to me, I don't know why. It's the small ordinary mundane things that bring on the most tears - a pair of socks lying on the floor of your bedroom, the sight of your razor in the bathroom, your handwriting in your checkbook, your watch on the kitchen counter, the clothes you were wearing when you were admitted to the hospital. I hold those clothes up to my nose and breathe deeply, because they still bear your scent. I've cried rivers of tears since your passing and I'm sure to shed many more.

I'll miss you. I'll miss hearing you tell the Mexican Bandit joke, our suppers together, hearing your laugh, hugging you, seeing you drive up in your red and white 1984 Ford pickup truck - you loved that truck so much and called it "my baby" (it's now mine, a part of you I'll keep with me as long as I live), hearing you say "Let me get my tools" whenever I'd call you with a request to come fix something (you could fix anything), the calls on my birthday and hearing you say "Happy Birthday to yeeewww" in that unique way of yours no one will ever be able to duplicate...the security of knowing you were there for us, whatever we needed.

I love you Daddy. Guess I'll have to wait until I get to heaven to take you for that hamburger and Bud Light.

Not giving up on you

Tonight you were my Daddy again. You were joking with the nurses ("Aye aye, Sergeant!"....said a little weaker than normal, but God how I loved hearing that!), reminiscing about things you and Joyce have done, asking about Powder ("that undisciplined dog", you call him, just to yank my chain a little, but who turns to mush when you see that wagging tail greeting you?), asking to read the paper (even if it was only the comics, that's something you haven't done in days), asking for your toothbrush and a shave, going through your mail and telling me which ones to keep and which ones to throw out...in short, you were C.B.

Even after a difficult and uncomfortable day of tests, tubes down your throat, needles in your arms, and once again not being permitted to have any food, you were more yourself tonight than you've been in almost a week. When you say to us "I'm so hungry", it simultaneously breaks my heart and makes it leap for joy, because anyone who knows you knows about your healthy appetite, and hearing you say that is music to my ears.

No, despite the pessimism of the doctors, despite the ups and downs and the seemingly endless snowballing of complications because of the shock to your 81-year old body, you, my darling Daddy, are a tough old bird, a fighter, a scrapper...you always have been and you're still fighting. You are not ready to give up on life, on humor, on your independence, on keeping up with current events, on your day-to-day chores, on your relationship, on your children and grandchildren. You're not ready to leave us yet, and you proved that today, not by any heroic or calculated move, but simply by being C.B. again. And as long as you fight to stay with us, we will fight with you, as long as it takes, whatever it takes.

I love you Daddy, so much. Rest easy, fight to get well and come back to us. In the meantime, we've got your back.

Time is no one's friend

I've always been very proud of the fact that my dad has always been what I would call a go-getter, a ball of fire...a do-it-yourselfer, extremely active, and being a military man, serving active duty in the Navy during World War II and then 30 years in the reserves, he has remained fit most of his life, through regular exercise and physical activity. He's had his share of health conditions and bouts of surgery, but through it all he has remained active, on-the-go and pretty much able to do whatever he likes.

In the last 2 years, however, my sister and I have noticed a gradual decline in his mental abilities...slightly more forgetful, easily confused, and once or twice he has gotten lost in the town he was born and has lived in all his life. Not good signs.

This weekend, my father was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery following a diagnosis of acute appendicitis. Unusual for an 81-year-old. He's in the hospital recovering, and my sis, Daddy's lady friend and I are taking turns making sure he's not left alone.

Sitting in my father's room today...giving him sips of water, trying to make him comfortable and watching him drift in and out of sleep...it suddenly hit me that my father is old. I've never thought of him as an elderly person, despite his age - he has always been so vital, so active, so sharp, so in touch with current events...this is a man who makes watching the evening news an absolute priority of every day, as important as eating or sleeping...but the time has come for our family to face what we all face eventually: the inevitable aging and mortality of loved ones.

As active as my father has always been, my sister and I have prayed for years that when God takes him, to take him quickly. We can't imagine or bear to watch our always on-the-go father an invalid, languishing in a bed or wheelchair for years before passing away.

My father has an excellent chance of recovering from his surgery. He's on some strong antibiotics and is receiving good care from the doctors and nurses at the hospital. It will take longer, of course...81-year-olds don't bounce back from injury or illness as well as younger folks do...but all indications are that he will be okay. He's even joking when he's having lucid moments and the pain medication he's on isn't making him say comically out-of-context off-the-wall stuff. And asking for a hamburger and a Bud Light instead of the disgusting clear liquid diet he's being forced to adhere to: chicken or beef broth, jello, grape or apple juice, tea and ginger ale. That's enough to make anybody sick.

But for the first time in my life, I recognize and reluctantly accept the fact that my father is now an old man. It happens to all of us, if we live long enough. And the thing to do for the time we have left remaining is to enjoy and appreciate every moment we spend with him, because some day we will regret not taking more opportunities to enjoy spending time with our loved ones while we still can.

I love you Daddy. Get well soon. Can't wait to take you out for a hamburger and a beer.