That One Regret

.



I remember
the call
from my mother
like it was
yesterday.

She said:
”Daddy’s sick.
He is going
to the VA
tomorrow
for testing.

It’s not going to be good.”

I remember my feelings were instantly that of relief. I had waited for this moment, in fact prayed for it my whole life, it seemed. But what she said next caused those feelings to be replaced with those of fear. “Amy, I know you think this is going to be an easy ride. I know you think you hate him. But I promise you this: it’s going to be much harder than you think because of your history together.”

For the next 24 hours I was lost in a place of nastalgia and anger. Occasionally a bit of sadness would swim in, but I would quickly get back to the matter at hand; which was hating that man. (The reasons are all unimportant to the reader, though perhaps wanted for a more graphic story, or impact. If it is imaginable, or unimaginable, it is close to accurate, so let your imagination be your guide.) The memories poured like rain from the gutter, and I was finding myself lost in the intensity of emotion. Almost getting high off of the anger itself. Getting high was something I was very experienced in, and finding ways and means to continue doing it was also my forte. I had been using opiates to “self medicate” since 1999. This was June of 2008, so I was well acquainted and well into my addiction. I, at this point, was taking only about 20 “greens” a day, but that was about to triple in a very short span of time.

I walked into his room to meet the rest of my family, who stood with somber looks about them; no one daring to make eye contact with me. I was so confused as to why they felt I needed shelter from their “bad news”. Hadn’t I deserved to know every single ugly detail about his diagnosis? Hadn’t I become a woman despite any and all attempts by him to deplete me of existence entirely? Wasn’t I the one that would be the least harmed by his sudden demise? I would rejoice! I would feel righted. I would be grateful. Heck, I may even finally stop using drugs! There in that bed lay the man I had blamed for every single problem that ever existed on earth, mine or otherwise. He was moaning a bit. He was barely conscious. Apparently he hadn’t eaten in well over 2 weeks and had been self medicating his lack of bowel movements with enemas and laxatives for 2 years. Without even one Doctor’s visit, the tumor on his pancreas had gone undetected and was now the size of a cantaloupe. They gave him 4 months to live and brought him by ambulance to my childhood home, now owned and operated by my brother and his wife. My family said to pack a big bag and stay. I did as I was told, knowing full well I would not be effected by this even a little, except to finally have some peace of mind.

Day one was fairly calm. He arrived, the hospice nurse arrived, the family gathered and discussed what needed to be done and by whom, and I began to detach bit by bit.

Being in the same house that all of my memories were attached to was a little bit uneasy. My brother and sister in law had done an amazing job of restoring, remodeling and basically reinventing the house, but it was still the house to me. My father lay in a room that once was our formal living room. He was in a hospital bed, and was able to communicate. I had never heard my dad complain in my whole life, and never seen him in pain. However on day 3 I ventured into the room (only because it was my turn to babysit) and sat down in a chair to watch tv with him. It was around 3PM when he made the first noise. It was not very loud, but it was very powerful. For the first time in quite possibly 10 years, I looked at my father. He was pale, thin, his face was beginning to sink in, and his mouth was cracked and had black tarry residue in the corners. He held out his hand for me to hold, and although I had gone over this exact scenario in my head and knew I would not respond to such manipulation by him, I instinctively grabbed it. He held my hand tightly and smiled. After 5 minutes or so, I tried to remove my hand because he seemed to have drifted into sound slumber. When I pulled slightly, he squeezed harder, and smiled bigger. This cycle continued for around 7 0r 8 times, and he finally let go. With one tired eye open he looked at me in a way I will always remember. And out of his once loud, attention getting vocal chords came a weak, raspy whisper. The voice was unfamiliar to me and for the first time since this began, tears danced down my cheeks. The words he spoke are etched in my soul.

“Your daddy loves you. Your daddy did the best he could. Your daddy’s sorry, Junebug.” That was it. That was the moment those memories of pain began to fade into a form of love. That’s when I began my process of letting go of the hate. I believed that man in that moment, and I agreed to forgive him. I also stepped out of denial of his impending death. My days there became more clear, and my motives became more pure. My job was to help him leave this earth as comfortably as possible, and with as much love as I could muster. It was uncomfortable at first, but as the days turned into weeks, I was home. I rained tears from that moment until the last. I was inconsolable, and I was grief stricken like I had never known. My mother’s words rang true in my thoughts and in my emotions. I raced through my memories trying to “fix” them with love and compassion, I rewrote events, I amended resentments. I was losing someone who, through all of his own sickness both mental and spiritual~ and now physical, had loved me. He had carried my pictures in his wallet since I became his daughter. He saved every infantile poem I had ever scribbled. He taught me how to survive, how to love, and how to be a strong woman, but my self pity and self loathing monopolized any chance of me seeing even the slightest good in him, or in my life. But he was leaving me now, and it was permanent. The game changed.

My father passed away 3 weeks after his diagnosis, to the day. It was also his 70th birthday. My father was not an evil man, he was a sick man. He was an alcoholic who never got the help he so desperately needed. I continued to abuse those “greens” until I reached 60 per day, and neared death myself. Today I have 19 months clean and sober, and I have no resentment in my heart for that man, or any other. I do have that one regret, though. That one regret is that on that day he held my hand and smiled, I didn’t smile back. He didn’t get to see with clear eyes, before the dying process really took hold of him, that I forgave him. He missed out on seeing my heart as it grew a few inches in that moment. Some say he knew it by my action, and I try to hold that as truth, but if I had just one moment to do over…

BY: Junebug

http://junebugmags.wordpress.com

{ August 17, 2011 @ 4:55 am } · { Death of My Father }
{ Tags: cancer, Death, forgiveness, healing, narcotics anonymous, recovery }
.
.
.
.
..