After a restless night, dreaming of seeing my father again, I woke before the sun came up to greet the day with a melancholy heart. I woke my boyfriend and made the bed quietly; he knew without a word that I had the dream again, the dream in which I ran to embrace my papa, and when he looked at me without recognition, I realized, with a sinking heart, that it wasn’t him at all, that it couldn’t have been, because he was gone forever. My boyfriend touched my face, said he loved me, hugged me, kissed my hair, and went to make coffee, understanding that I needed to quietly collect myself.
It’s getting close to a year, now, since he’s been gone, and still, some days, it all comes rushing back to me. Sometimes, it’s just a single moment, like the look in his eyes when he wanted my help, or a certain length of time, like the first serious hospital stay. Today, it was the hospital stay, the pain, the anguish, the anxiety, the anger, the helplessness, the fear, all of the feelings I had then flooded me all at once, so much that I felt I couldn’t contain it. With coffee and breakfast over, I decided on a shower to clear my head, and I found myself just letting the water run over me while I cried, thinking of him, remembering that week, feeling the burn of regret over having failed at protecting the man that protected me all of my life, even when we were not together, even now, after he’s gone from this Earth.
As clear as crystal, I remember the day I brought him to the doctor, I remember the hurt in his eyes, the thought behind them that I had betrayed his trust, as he thought I would just leave him there. Time and time again, I reassured him that I would stay until he came home with me. Never in my life had I seen fear in my papa’s eyes, but it was there then, as he squeezed my hand and asked me to promise. I did, and I stayed by his side for every single second of that frightening experience.
On the first day, everyone seemed to think he was a sack of potatoes with no feelings, moving him around without care for his condition and treating him like he couldn’t think or speak for himself, so with one fell swoop, I kicked all of the nurses, save one or two that expressed consideration, out of the room for the duration. From that moment, I helped him with every single thing, from showering to eating to ensuring that he felt safe and happy, all things considered. I never watched so many old cowboy movies or listened to so much Hank Williams in my life, and I grew up with all of that as part of life. His heart had been broken at his helplessness, and I took every single opportunity to reassure him that I loved him and that I was doing everything I did because I loved him and that there was no shame in needing help, because once, I needed his, and he so lovingly gave it. Someday, I hope someone loves me as much and offers that much care in those scary moments that I find myself being unable.
What made it even worse was the lack of consideration and communication from the doctors and nurses. People coming in, shoving me aside from him, the desperation on his face as he saw me move away, the continuously unanswered questions, as I pounded the nurses and doctors for clarity on his situation. Those questions were never answered. The nurses always answered with “I don’t know” and the doctors always evaded and shrugged their shoulders as if it didn’t matter, claiming that it is what it is.
After a week of losing sleep and at the end of my fast disappearing rope, I looked at my papa and took stock of the situation myself. He had grown frail in that short time. He ate little if he ate at all, another unmet concern I brought to the attention of the doctors and nurses. He was losing his spirit, and fast; I became so frightened that he would die, because he didn’t want to live anymore. Finally, at this, I confronted the doctor, expressing my concerns, beseeching him to understand and help me to make this better. His only reply was, “This is normal.” Normal, I thought. Normal. I considered this for another day, and finally, I decided that however normal, this was not right. A thing can be normal and terribly wrong. At the time that it was running rampant, slavery was normal, but that didn’t make it right or okay at all!
My decision was made. My papa would be happy in his own home if nothing more could be done to make him healthy again, not sapped of his joy and energy, so they could take his money and forsake their duties to the patient and his family. My papa was going home, where he could feel safe and happy again. That evening, I called all of my siblings and let them know how things were going and what I felt needed to happen. They all agreed. Papa needed someone that would care for him as a human, and he needed to feel safe and secure to get healthy again. The next day, I told the doctor what we had decided, and I asked if he would help us find home care. He refused to speak with me or to offer care to my father, indicating that his release papers would be ready in a day.
Later, we learned that his condition was worsened to irreversible by the medication prescribed and administered to him at the hospital. It hurts to know that I chose to bring him there. It hurts to know that I’ll never see his face, because I made those decision. I wish with every fiber in my body that I’d have taken him home sooner.
But.
I’ll always remember the sheer pleasure on my father’s face as we pulled up to the farm, his joy at seeing his home and animals. With his cane, he walked over to pet the horse. That scene will forever be part of my heart’s memories.
And.
I will always, always remember his strength and most of all, his love.