it’s 11:30.
Nineteen years ago this very moment I stood next to a stainless steel labratory table holding my dead father’s hand in mine.
He had finished his shift at Ford, locked his toolbox, and run up the three flights of stairs between his shop and the locker room on the mezzanine. Just like he’d done every other evening of his life for twenty seven years. Only this time he had a grabber about halfway up. He made it to the top and collapsed. They were unable to revive him
He hadn’t had a genetically bad ticker, he had a bad ticker because of the hell he’d been through in his life. He had scarlet fever when he was young that messed up his heart valves and left him with only partial heart function to begin with. It was a wonder he’d made it as long as he had.
I stood there with the table supporting me, holding his hand in mine, for a very long time. The wrinkles in his face were gone. The hospital sheet covered him to his chest, so I could see the scars on his shoulders and arms where he’d had surgeries and other problems in his life.
An orderly came in and asked me if they could harvest his eyes now. He’d signed his donor card for the eye bank, his eyes went to fix cataracts on a couple other people. I squeezed his hand and left.
I’ve never been able to talk about this in nineteen years. It’s killing me to do so now.
We had dad’s favorite meal, which we always do on the anniversary, pork chops with mashed potatos and milk gravy, sauerkraut to mix in witht he taters and gravy. Mom cracked open a mason jar of corn we canned in 1978, one of the last years dad had the big garden. Dad would have put the corn into the jar, we ate it in his memory.
I don’t know if this will ever not hurt.
12 comments Og | Uncategorized
Og, God bless your father. Let there be no doubt: He a left a legacy. You’re it.
My dad is still smoking three packs a day at 80, if he were to be called by our Creator today, I don’t know how I would react. After all the times he asserted his authority over me, usually with a belt, I reminded him that I would be stronger than him one day. I think I can take him today. I better call him.
Thanks for reminding me that we don’t know what we have until it’s gone.
Honey, you never get over the loss of a beloved parent… but you do get through it.
Sending big hugs!
Oh, Og…You have my deepest sympathy. I still can’t talk about standing by the bed while my beloved husband breathed his last a couple of years ago. If you were here, I’d hold your hand, and just listen.
Prayers,
Liz
Got yer back, Ogger.
Will it ever not hurt? Prolly not.
I had my father until I was 35, but I know someone who lost his father when he was 16 – talk about a really bad time to lose one. Still, you’re never old enough to be ok with it, whenever you lose your father, and it’s always way too soon for him to go, whether by surprise, or as the expected end of a terminal illness. I was lucky enough to have a great one also. The pain of the loss is tribute to his worth. If it didn’t hurt, I’d be a thankless s.o.b.
I know you know, I’m just letting you know someone else out here in the ether knows, too. Take care, man.
I lost my Dad in ’98 and it still hurts. He was one of those guys that didn’t show much emotion, but we did acknowledge our love for each other. He died at home while I was on a trip, so I never got to see him or say goodbye – closed casket and all. I did with my mother, however, and found it made little difference one way or the other.
While I get depressed just missing him, he is still with me in many ways. I can hear him talking to me in certain circumstances, speaking what he would say if he were there. He had a lot of truisms that just pop into my mind at the appropriate prompts. So, in that sense, he is still with me and a comfort.
I also know that he was hurting at the end – he had Parkinson’s and had suffered surgeries. His rehab was in a rest home, and he didn’t want to end up there – the month he was there was enough for him. He had a pretty good year after all that. When I left on the trip, he was going trout fishing at a local pond. He went in his sleep, in his chair watching television, on his farm. Not too bad a way to go, I guess.
I don’t expect the pain to go away – I’ve just learned to live around it.
No, it never does but it changes. I don’t know how to describe it, but it changes into something better. The pain is still there, but not as it was.
Hang in there.
My Father had been in a home for a year or so, my Mother didn’t miss but one day of going to see him while he was there and of course us kids went and saw him weekly. I lived out of town and the last time I saw my Father alive he had had a rough night and wasn’t eating. As I walked into his room the nurse asked if I could get him to eat something. I remember sitting on the side of his bed and feeding him and talking with him about the latest news. After he finished eating we talked a bit and he fell asleep. I walked over and kissed his forehead and went home. A week later my Sister called to tell me he had died.
I won’t say the pain goes away, but it does become more managable with time.
There’s nothing that can ever take away the pain buddy. Time might dull a bit, but only just so much.
Sorry to hear about your pain, Og. Lost my dad on July 8, 1989. I still get weepy on that day. I was able to keep Mom around until 1999. Now that they’re both gone, I’ve had to face my mortality. That’s a toughie. It was always easier when I had their generation as a buffer between me and Death. Keep your chin up, Og. We’ll all get there together.
*raises glass*
To Og’s dad…
I’m so sorry for your painful loss. I wish you God’s peace.