mrduke
Not a hater
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I really am unorganized with all the things I write. Here is a short story about the day my Daddy died. I had an editor at the time and she helped me refine the story, but it has lain around for 16 years. Some things need to be shared for cathartic value, and some things just need to be shared for the story. You be the judge.
I remember reading sometime before my 40th birthday how one deals with the death of a parent is good criteria for the well adjusted adlult. I will agree that it has an unbelievable significance. It has moved me closer to being a man more than I could ever have dreamed of.
16 years ago I received a page with a message from mother to "Come if you can..." her voice trailed, "...Daddy". The line clicked dead. I saved this message for days, replaying, checking for sounds in her voice of somthing terribly amiss. There were none. But she knew. I was eight minutes from the hospital and from the biggest change in my life.
We had been summoned by our mother, my sister's and I. In just a few minutes we were all assembled together in the ICU waiting room. From there the things we witnessed were fast and profound. Nervous, giddy and waiting for an explanatioin, we were carefully guided to a room just past the area of ICU where I last saw Daddy alive. I caught a glimpse of him through the team of medical folks hovering over hiim, their bodies adroitly moving in and around the collection of equipment. The only sounds were those of the machines thier medicinal hums and drones and hisses. We were all scared. I was mortified.
Mothers and daughters, they have each other. Conversations take place with just a nod of the head. Things are known and shared with but a glance that my mere male mind cound never approach nor recognize. Fathers and sons (or maybe just in my case) rely on the more mechanical part of human nature for love and understanding. The nuts and bolts and wrenches that put it all together and hold it there.
In short order the doctor appeared and offered in a most blunt manner, "Earl is in critical condition. So far he is hanging on and putting up one hell of a fight. He will not make it much further. Your father made his wishes perfectly clear." He ended the conversation with "His signature on a living will precludes any life saving measures on our part".
I was stunned. I had lunch and dinner with him the day before. I knew he was uncomfortable, he said so. When open heart surgery is performed the breast bone has to be broken, and when the bone knits, it is very hard to find a way to lay comfortablly. The winces and struggles to find a way to lay and breathe that didn't cause anymore pain than necessary were difficult to watch. But he had color, and humor and nerve and will. He had lasted a week out of surgery, confessing to me that he had won the battle.
Dad's nurse, whom had accompanied the doctor whispered to me, "I have been with him every day for 7 days. Your father was a strong man, I thought he would make it." She was unbelievably calm when she said wtih priilege, dignity and honor, that Dad had a gift for the living. His corneas and skin could be harvested and beneficial to someone in need. I deferred to Mom. Together our honesty, however selfish, was nonetheless very real.
I can tell how far I've come just being able to recall with remarkable pain and clarity how hateful I was to my mother, when her husband of 53 years passed away. "Son you have to let him go. It would be selfish to want him to stay. We just have to let him go." She was trying the only way she knew to comfort me. All I could manage (and what a pity to admit) was a spiteful "Get the hell away from me. Just get the hell away and stay away". Boy, do I live daily to regret ever saying that or behaving that way.
Women need hugs and kisses and remembrances, I knew that. The kowledge just didn't seem to be too useful then. I'm not sure if women understand the fear in the heart of a man whom is loosing control, and the combined fear of having witnesses to the event. The remnants of our nuclear family lay scattered across the floor, and I could not find the tools Daddy taught me to use and respect and clean and keep. "A man can do anything in the world with the right tools." I heard Daddy say. This I also knew. I simply could not find them.
I'm not sure of the order, but one by one were were alowed a moment to say goodbye, alone, with him. When it was my turn, his body was warm to the touch and he was covered up to the neck in bedding to hide the scars and evidence of the visible affects the crash cart inflicts on the body. My conversation (I've never shared this) with him was simply "You promised not to leave me alone with the three of them, you promised."
I handed my Daddy many disappointments along my journey to manhood, and I have to admit that through the years the stubborn old man finessed me. He finessed and cajoled me and along with some humility, I learned. I figured he had nothing to teach me. But it sunk in. He would tell be he was my VERY best friend at a time when I would laugh behind his back. He continued tell me this until the day I decided to believe it. And you know what? He was right! Man did we ever have fun after that!
I spoke to Daddy in a dream the other night and I am proud to tell about it! I awakened in a good mood, an indication there was nothing sad about it. I don't recall the exact conversation, but it was present day. It ended after he asked "Say egghead? You seen my knife? I went to my desk and got it for him. I treasure it as a kings ransom.
All my life my Daddy called me cement-head. One stubborn man talking to a stubborn boy. Not slander, but his way of making me learn, and pay attention, and do or at least try.
Today I would like Daddy to know I found the tools. For him to know while there is a cog missing, rolls still a wheel. I would thank him for the promotion form cement-head to egghead. For him to know how sorry I am that we never got to go fishing, though he'd finally relented. I am damned sorry about that. I would argue with him that men too have ways of communicating without need of speaking. Finally for him to know, that, which he never asked of me was done and taken care of. She wanted little, just longed for missed companionshiip.
Whenever I feel I am too big for my britches I remember your tale of how poor our family was at the end of the Civil War, how you're Aunt Zude took residence in a cave, for refuge. It helps me determine need versus want.
That's me on the right (I was 19) today it's me on the left (at 53). I look so much like him it hurts!
Duke
I remember reading sometime before my 40th birthday how one deals with the death of a parent is good criteria for the well adjusted adlult. I will agree that it has an unbelievable significance. It has moved me closer to being a man more than I could ever have dreamed of.
16 years ago I received a page with a message from mother to "Come if you can..." her voice trailed, "...Daddy". The line clicked dead. I saved this message for days, replaying, checking for sounds in her voice of somthing terribly amiss. There were none. But she knew. I was eight minutes from the hospital and from the biggest change in my life.
We had been summoned by our mother, my sister's and I. In just a few minutes we were all assembled together in the ICU waiting room. From there the things we witnessed were fast and profound. Nervous, giddy and waiting for an explanatioin, we were carefully guided to a room just past the area of ICU where I last saw Daddy alive. I caught a glimpse of him through the team of medical folks hovering over hiim, their bodies adroitly moving in and around the collection of equipment. The only sounds were those of the machines thier medicinal hums and drones and hisses. We were all scared. I was mortified.
Mothers and daughters, they have each other. Conversations take place with just a nod of the head. Things are known and shared with but a glance that my mere male mind cound never approach nor recognize. Fathers and sons (or maybe just in my case) rely on the more mechanical part of human nature for love and understanding. The nuts and bolts and wrenches that put it all together and hold it there.
In short order the doctor appeared and offered in a most blunt manner, "Earl is in critical condition. So far he is hanging on and putting up one hell of a fight. He will not make it much further. Your father made his wishes perfectly clear." He ended the conversation with "His signature on a living will precludes any life saving measures on our part".
I was stunned. I had lunch and dinner with him the day before. I knew he was uncomfortable, he said so. When open heart surgery is performed the breast bone has to be broken, and when the bone knits, it is very hard to find a way to lay comfortablly. The winces and struggles to find a way to lay and breathe that didn't cause anymore pain than necessary were difficult to watch. But he had color, and humor and nerve and will. He had lasted a week out of surgery, confessing to me that he had won the battle.
Dad's nurse, whom had accompanied the doctor whispered to me, "I have been with him every day for 7 days. Your father was a strong man, I thought he would make it." She was unbelievably calm when she said wtih priilege, dignity and honor, that Dad had a gift for the living. His corneas and skin could be harvested and beneficial to someone in need. I deferred to Mom. Together our honesty, however selfish, was nonetheless very real.
I can tell how far I've come just being able to recall with remarkable pain and clarity how hateful I was to my mother, when her husband of 53 years passed away. "Son you have to let him go. It would be selfish to want him to stay. We just have to let him go." She was trying the only way she knew to comfort me. All I could manage (and what a pity to admit) was a spiteful "Get the hell away from me. Just get the hell away and stay away". Boy, do I live daily to regret ever saying that or behaving that way.
Women need hugs and kisses and remembrances, I knew that. The kowledge just didn't seem to be too useful then. I'm not sure if women understand the fear in the heart of a man whom is loosing control, and the combined fear of having witnesses to the event. The remnants of our nuclear family lay scattered across the floor, and I could not find the tools Daddy taught me to use and respect and clean and keep. "A man can do anything in the world with the right tools." I heard Daddy say. This I also knew. I simply could not find them.
I'm not sure of the order, but one by one were were alowed a moment to say goodbye, alone, with him. When it was my turn, his body was warm to the touch and he was covered up to the neck in bedding to hide the scars and evidence of the visible affects the crash cart inflicts on the body. My conversation (I've never shared this) with him was simply "You promised not to leave me alone with the three of them, you promised."
I handed my Daddy many disappointments along my journey to manhood, and I have to admit that through the years the stubborn old man finessed me. He finessed and cajoled me and along with some humility, I learned. I figured he had nothing to teach me. But it sunk in. He would tell be he was my VERY best friend at a time when I would laugh behind his back. He continued tell me this until the day I decided to believe it. And you know what? He was right! Man did we ever have fun after that!
I spoke to Daddy in a dream the other night and I am proud to tell about it! I awakened in a good mood, an indication there was nothing sad about it. I don't recall the exact conversation, but it was present day. It ended after he asked "Say egghead? You seen my knife? I went to my desk and got it for him. I treasure it as a kings ransom.
All my life my Daddy called me cement-head. One stubborn man talking to a stubborn boy. Not slander, but his way of making me learn, and pay attention, and do or at least try.
Today I would like Daddy to know I found the tools. For him to know while there is a cog missing, rolls still a wheel. I would thank him for the promotion form cement-head to egghead. For him to know how sorry I am that we never got to go fishing, though he'd finally relented. I am damned sorry about that. I would argue with him that men too have ways of communicating without need of speaking. Finally for him to know, that, which he never asked of me was done and taken care of. She wanted little, just longed for missed companionshiip.
Whenever I feel I am too big for my britches I remember your tale of how poor our family was at the end of the Civil War, how you're Aunt Zude took residence in a cave, for refuge. It helps me determine need versus want.
That's me on the right (I was 19) today it's me on the left (at 53). I look so much like him it hurts!
Duke
