A Very Mortal Christmas

A Very Mortal Christmas

   “I can’t feel my legs” I can hear the panic in his voice.

    “What do you want me to do?”

    “Rub them. Do it as hard as you can.”

      So, I pull the hospital blanket back exposing his white and now wasted legs while starting to rub them. They feel unnaturally cold. I can tell he’s not feeling it and rub harder. This isn’t like him, my father had always been a man with a calm, balanced disposition and I can’t remember him ever being really angry or frightened. Now there is no mistaking the pure fear in his voice that’s written large all over his face. I had seen him sit there during one of my mother’s angry outbursts and just take it showing no reaction, which of course only made her angrier. All she had wanted was some type of reaction.

     “I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin”

     “Hang in there dad, mom’s trying to find the doctor”

      Time seems frozen as I’m rubbing and rubbing to no effect. I’m already feeling a grief I never thought I would. We hadn’t been particularly close until just fairly recently when he’d suddenly taken more of an interest in me. Where the hell is the doctor?

      “I can’t feel my arms” his voice is even weaker and I start to work on the arm I can reach.

       “Don’t die, don’t die. The doctor’s going to be here soon.” I lie. I don’t have any idea when the doctor is coming.

        He’s fading fast. I’d never seen death before and I was freaking out. My heart rate is up. This is my father, dying right in front of me. I’m holding his hand. His grip is weak and getting weaker. He’s staring up at the corner of the hospital room.

       “Look, they’re trying to sing” his very weak voice manages to croak out. Then that is it. His grip loosens. His mouth agape and eyes open not blinking. I realize he’s not breathing and the tears are running down my face.

       Suddenly, a doctor and nurse are in the room and behind them, my mother. No heroic measures. We all knew this was his last day. The doctor feels his wrist and listens for a pulse, listens with a stethoscope for a heartbeat, and confirms the time of death. He tells us how sorry he is. Hollow words spoken many times. That’s it. He was alive a few minutes ago and now he’s dead. It is hard to fathom or even believe.

     My mom and I sit there holding his lifeless hands on either side of his bed after the doctor and nurse leave. We’re crying, empty, and confused by what to do. My sister, late to arrive, is inconsolable.

      Grief is a funny thing. I had thought that given my lack of relationship with him, that it wouldn’t be that bad. I had thought that knowing of his mortal condition for some months now that I would be prepared. Wrong on both counts. I’m a sobbing mess, crying for a man that had not been the father I desired him to be. He’d never thrown a baseball with me, never taken me fishing, or to a ball game. I had to get all those things and more, from the fathers of friends or from my friends themselves. Now here I was bawling.

     He died three days before Christmas when I am 23 years old. I am out of the family house and have my own place, but spend much of the next week at my parents’ house with my mother and sister. We ware partners in grief on what was supposed to be the happiest day of the year. The tree and presents forgotten and forlorn. Plans have to be made for a funeral and memorial. Friends have to be contacted. It is almost overwhelming for all of us. It is bad enough when a loved one dies, but then dealing with all the other things that have to be done is like salt in an open wound. Needless to say, Christmas has little meaning for the three of us this year.

    But I keep thinking about his last words. I can’t get them out of my mind. “Look they’re trying to sing”. What does that mean? What was he seeing? I don’t really have the time to think about it now. So much to do. What do I say for a eulogy? What can I say that is honest, but kind at the same time? I feel torn between the old resentments and the new found sorrow. Perhaps, I had unfairly judged him? I don’t know what I feel anymore.

    Then, the day is upon us. His memorial. Only a few days after Christmas. It is amazing how many people are here. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I had no idea that he was so loved. But then, I hadn’t paid much attention to his career, work life, or the people in it. So many fellow professors, students, and former students were here and I knew so few of them. I had paid as little attention to him as I felt he had with me. Like father, like son?

    Here goes, I’m very nervous as my trembling hands unfold the little speech I had written. Public speaking had never been my thing. My father had gloried in it. He once said it was like being on stage and a rush. I feel a rush alright, but not of pleasure. Only anxiety. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.

     “I want to thank all of you for coming to pay respects to my father” I start off with a little bit of a quaver in my voice, but take a deep breath before continuing. “It is a tribute to him that so many are here. I have to admit, sadly, that I don’t know as many of you as I should or wish I did. There were a few times that I went on campus with him and actually sat in on a couple of his lectures on English literature. Even though much of what he said was above my head, it was clear to see how connected he was to his students and how much they enjoyed his class. I remember waiting for him after the lectures were over and seeing a line of students waiting to ask him questions or to just talk about what he had said. It was a little annoying to me, I just wanted to get lunch with him” I smile and there are polite chuckles in the audience. “The whole experience showed me how much he was respected and admired for what he did. As a father, he was always kind and even tempered with me. He was always willing to answer any questions or address any problems I had. I was never much of an intellectual, and perhaps he was disappointed although he never expressed it to me. On the other hand, I always wished that he had taught me things involving sports and was disappointed it wasn’t his thing. I don’t know if he even knew how to throw a football, baseball, or even a Frisbee for that matter” Again there were a few chuckles from those who knew of his lack of athletic prowess. “I was a natural in sports. Where did that come from? Not from him.” Again some laughter. “But his was a brilliant mind and a kind heart. I will dearly miss him as will all of you here today. Please come up and say a few words, if you feel so inclined”. With that, I concluded.

      There is a flood of speakers after me. Probably close to half of those in attendance. I am moved to tears by some of the things they say. Some things about him I know but many I don’t. The whole experience is powerful but confusing. I am filled with sadness but uplifted that he was so loved. Moved that his life had so much impact on so many others.

    Four days after his memorial, I’m on campus cleaning out his office. He hadn’t been in it since he fell sick and it is pretty much as he must have left it. It is filled with books. Books I’d never read. Books that I probably wouldn’t even understand. What are we going to do with them? Maybe I can go by the other professors in his department and ask them to take what they want. Dad would like that, It would be so him, so generous.

    There are pictures all over the place. On every shelf, nook and cranny of the office. Of my parents wedding, of their growing family, of myself and my sister, and of me on every sporting team I had played on from Little League through high school. My two other times in the office had been brief, just enough to meet him and head out to lunch or his lecture. I hadn’t paid much attention before, but now it was clear how much he loved us in his way. Maybe not the way I had wanted.

    It is daunting, starting to fill up the boxes I had brought. It would take a few trips and some work. Today, it was just me as my mother and sister were not up to it. I started with his desk. On the top of it was a book that must have lain open since the last time he was here. It was a volume of the poems of T.S. Elliot open to a poem called “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”. What a strange title for a poem. I am fascinated and sit down to attempt to read some of it.

    First, I notice how long it is and hope I can make it through to satisfy my curiosity. Then as I read, I pick up this sense of longing in the poem, a struggle with indecision and doubt. It is a tough slog for me. Full of meaning my father could have easily explained to me, but was mostly above my pay grade. Then I hit pay dirt at the end of the poem. The last stanza of the poem seems to explain my father’s last words “look, they’re trying to sing” in a most unexpected way.

“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves .Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”

I read and re-read those lines several times, trying to get all the meaning I could. Closed the open book, put it in my box to save, and I hoped my father had found peace and the mermaids had finally sung for him.