No Matter What

It was a Tuesday in July. We were camping, just like we did every year before. My Dad is a very happy camper – he packs the tents, camping chairs, portable grill, fishing poles, blow up mattresses – the whole shebang. Even as a 5-year-old little girl, I had recognized my Dad’s two loves in life: my mother (a naturally beautiful, graceful lady) and nature (sometimes graceful, sometimes just full of bears). Dad’s face would always light up when we went camping, probably because he could really embrace the father-role: taking his kids fishing, cooking the recently gutted fish on his grill whilst sporting a Utah Jazz cap, building a fire, hiking, etc. I have a clear memory of that specific day, that Tuesday in July. We were hiking, me wearing a terrible 90’s multicolor wind-breaker jacket, trudging through the cool forest in the shaded afternoon, when we came upon a river. It was a gentle river but was at least 3 feet deep. My Dad looked at me, grinning, swinging me up.

“I’ve got you, Princess!” He stated dramatically. My Dad, ever the All-American-Hero, hoisted me onto his shoulders and waded across the water that would have gone well above my head. I giggled at his dramatics and petted his balding scalp.

“Thanks for saving me, Daddy!” I giggled in my high, quiet voice. He laughed.

“I’ll always save you. No matter what!” My mother, who had crossed before us, snapped a photograph from the other side. I often look at that picture: me with my cropped dark hair and big green eyes alight with joy as I rode across the river on my father’s shoulders, his big smile matching my own.

. . .

It is a Wednesday in June and I’m 10-years-old. My neighbors dog had recently given birth to a litter of puppies. This is very exciting news in the life of a 10-year-old. However, during the night, the puppies wandered off into the untamed land/cow grazing area behind our houses. When the neighbor kids and I discovered this news in the morning, we became greatly concerned, and alas, our quest was born. We must retrieve the helpless puppies! We immediately set off into the wooded pasture, scouring the land for these missing puppies. About two hours into our journey, my eldest sister, Allison, came running to where we were.

“Erika!” She exclaimed, panting. “You are in so much trouble!” She gave me her best glare, one which she practiced on me often.

“Me? Why?” My young and inexperienced brain could not fathom why I would get in trouble for going on a heroic quest to save the lives of these innocent creatures.

“You never told us where you were going! Mom and Dad are so mad at you. Come home right now!” She huffed, then turned on her heel, running back towards the house. Still being the optimistic adolescent that I was, I ran after my sister towards my home, thinking that once I explained my plight, I would be met with understanding and support for my heroic efforts.

Upon reaching the house, I walked through the door, and turned down the hall to my mother’s room. She was there, waiting for me, ready to pounce with her reprimands. I explained my situation, but she would hear none of it, instead telling me how worried she was, and that if something had happened to me, she wouldn’t know where I was or how to help me. Considering this, I recognized the validity of her argument. “John wants to talk to you. Stay here while I go find him.” I sat at the foot of her bed, waiting.When Dad entered the room, I could tell he was mad. Never had he been this mad at me before. He looked me in the eyes with his angry scowl.

“I was so worried when I couldn’t find you! You could have been kidnapped, or hurt, and I wouldn’t know where you were!” Dad never raises his voice, especially at me. This was uncharted territory that I was scared to cross.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, eyes downcast. “The puppies got lost and we went to go find them. I didn’t want to puppies to get hurt or die!” I tried to defend my stance.

“I don’t care about the puppies!” He bellowed. “I care about you! You are my concern. You never asked if you could leave. You never checked in or told anyone where you were going. We have been looking for you for over an hour! Do you know how scared I was?”

“I’m sorry!” Tears began to stream down my cheeks as I realized the selfishness of my decision, causing this much worry. Dad looked down and took a deep breath.

“I don’t like getting mad at you. But you have to realize how dangerous this could have been.” He looked up and met my gaze. “You’re grounded from four-wheeler rides for a week,” he stated, defeated. My mouth dropped with shock. No four-wheeler rides! For a whole entire week! My heart shattered, and I melted into sobs. My siblings would hold this over my head for as long as I lived. Grounded! No one in my family had ever been grounded before. Oh, the slander this would add to my reputation. I begged in my mind that I be allowed to redo the events of that day and go back in time, but unfortunately, my request was not granted. A few days later, I had to longingly, and mournfully, look out the window while I watched my Dad give the kids turns to ride on the back of his four-wheeler with him through the pasture.

. . .

It is a Friday evening in September, and Dad and I are in the middle of a yelling match.

“Why won’t you let me go to Europe?” I angrily asked. I was graduating High School that spring, and my classmates were going to Europe for two weeks on a student tour.

“Because!” He responded in kind. “You don’t get to go unless I come with you. It’s too dangerous to go without a parent.” Did I mention that my Dad is a paranoid man who had watched Taken too many times? No? My bad.

“I’m not going to get kidnapped or murdered! There will be plenty of other parents and tour guides there, and I’ll be with my tour group every second of the trip.” I declared incredulously. Why was it so hard for him to say yes?

“You are only 17-years-old! I don’t trust the people there, and you are too young to travel to a different country without me.”

“I’m not dumb! I won’t make dumb decisions. I’ll stay with my group. I promise!”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he kindly said, looking into my eyes. “I just don’t trust everyone else in the world. Your safety is the most important thing to me.” I groaned.

“It’s not fair! I will earn all the money for it and be able to pay for myself.” Tears were starting to form in my eyes at the disappointment of my dreams being crushed.

“You might have the money, but I don’t. And you don’t get to go without me, so unless you want to pay for me too, then you aren’t going,” He responded.

“Six-thousand dollars! How do you expect me to earn six-thousand dollars? This is so unfair! Everyone else in my class gets to go! Their parents said yes!” I begged him to understand how important this was to me. Traveling was always a dream and passion of mine.

“Well, then I guess their parents don’t care about their kids as much as I care about you. My answer is no, and it’s not budging. If you live under my roof, then you have to abide by my rules.” He stated matter-of-factly.

“Well then I don’t want to live under your stupid roof!” I yelled back. I walked out and  slammed the door behind me. I slammed my bedroom door as well, and then threw myself onto my bed to cry, Cinderella-style. This was the biggest fight we had ever had. But I had to stay angry so I could lick the wounds of my hurt pride and broken dreams. Eventually, after weeks of teenage moping and angst, I forgave him and decided to start publicly loving him again.

. . .

“Congratulations, Princess!” My pet name never got old; I still adored it, no matter how childish it sounded. It was May 13^th, the following spring; my High School Graduation day. I had just walked across the stage and received my diploma and was now in the reception area with my family. Dad was beaming at me.

“I’m so proud of you! You were the prettiest one up there. And a two-thousand-dollar scholarship!” He sobered, lowering his voice. “You constantly amaze me.” The love in his eyes made my heart swell. How could I have ever been angry and hateful towards this amazing man?

“Thanks Dad!” I threw my arms around his neck and embraced him. “I am pretty dang smart,” I casually said, pulling back. “I wonder who I got it from.” I put a finger on my chin and pretended to be in deep thought. Dad shrugged, playing along.

“You got your brains from your mother. Everyone knows that. But you got your looks from me. I’m a real stud.” He winked at me and I laughed, shaking my head at him. It was such a wonderful day, and I was so happy.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “Not only am I the studdliest Dad in the world, but I am also the awesomest one.” He stated proudly. I raised an eyebrow at his declaration.

“Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?” Proudly puffing out his chest, he responded.

“Because I am going to take you on the art trip the San Francisco for your graduation present.”

“What?” My face lit up in surprise. “Really? Promise?”

“Really. We leave in June, and I have already paid for it.” He smiled, pleased with how happy this revelation made me. He knew that I was obsessed with art; it was my one true love, really. He knew that taking me on DSU’s art trip to San Francisco would be the perfect gift. He then told me that Mom and Grams would be joining us. I was so excited and happy. I laughed.

“Technically you still owe me like $600 from when I worked for you last summer,” I said. “So, technically, this is just you paying me back,” I stated, watching his reaction. He put a hand to his chest in mock pain.

“You may be right,” he sighed, dramatically looking to the ceiling. “But we all know that the true gift is the gift of my presence in going with you.” He laughed, and I did too.

“Alright, maybe you’re are right.” I beamed at him. “Thank you, Dad. This means so much.” I sincerely responded. He just smiled and nodded.

“Of course! Anything for my smart, beautiful Princess.”

. . .

It is a Saturday in August. I am eighteen years old. I am sitting on the edge of Mom’s bed, holding Dad’s hand. He is laying in his pajamas under the covers, his oxygen cannula blowing air into his nose. Even with the two brain tumors and the cancer eating at his brain, he was still my funny, kind best friend. But he was declining fast, and I was so scared.

“I’m so sorry, Dad!” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry I’m not the daughter that I could have been. I’m sorry for every time I ever got mad at you, or yelled at you, or made a mistake. I’m so sorry. I need you to know how sorry I am.” Dad reached his hand out and pet my hair while I cried into his hand.

“Shhhhh…It’s okay. You are an amazing daughter. No one is perfect, and everyone makes mistakes. I’m not a perfect father, either. Far from it, actually,” he let out a slight chuckle. “But nothing could every change how much I love you. I am so blessed to have a daughter as wonderful as you. I love you so much.” His facial features went soft as he tried to convey his love and forgiveness, even through the pain. I laid my head on his chest, trying to slow the torrent of tears.

“I love you more,” I hiccupped, squeezing his hand.

“I love you most,” he responded, squeezing my hand right back.

. . .

It is Tuesday, October 10, 2017, two months later. My Dad is laying on his bed. His eyes are closed, and his chest rises and falls with labored breathing. Every time he pulls in a gurgling inhale, a burdened exhale follows. I sit on the floor, holding his pale hand and looking up at him.

“Hey Dad,” I try to say nonchalantly. “What’s up?” I tried to keep control over my emotions, but before I know it, tears were silently trailing down my cheeks.

“The nurse said she thinks today is the day.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. You are only 47! Still a fresh spring chicken in my book,” I referenced one of his favorite jokes, trying to add a smile. The only smile I got was mine, however fleeting. Dad’s cool face doesn’t change. I don’t even know if he can hear me, but I continue on.

“I love you. You know that? I love you more than words could ever say. You are my best friend, and I have been so lucky to have a best friend who is also the coolest Dad ever!” I laugh incredulously. “I know, right? I really won the lottery with you.” My smile fades from my face as my emotions threaten to overtake me.

“Dad, if you can hear me, just know how much I love you.” My quiet tears now turn to messy sobs as I mentally will his eyes to open. “I don’t know how I am going to survive without you. It’s too hard. It’s too hard! And it’s not fair. I won the lottery! Why is the best thing in my life being taken away from me? I don’t understand.” I place my forehead on the back of his hand while I sob, my tears creating a little puddle on the hardwood floor.

. . .

It is eight hours later. My whole family surrounds him on his bed, watching his chest with frightened eyes, following every breath, waiting for the next. We have been in here with him all day, each of the kids taking turns holding his hands or kissing his cheek. The hospice nurse told us that people often stay, even though they are in incredible pain, because they are afraid to leave their family. She suggested that we each say our goodbyes and tell him that it is okay for him to go so that he doesn’t have to stay in pain any longer than necessary.

I’m the last one. I refuse to mumble those words to him, because that means that he might actually leave me. I’m terrified of what tomorrow will look like without him, but at the same time, each gurgling breath breaks my heart a little more. It takes time, but I finally do it. I move to the head of the bed, laying my cheek against his, stroking the other side of his scruffy face with my hand.

“Everyone is telling me to let you go,” I whisper in his ear so that only he can hear. “But I don’t want to. I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it.” I stop, kissing his cheek, my tears glistening on his colorless skin. A few moments later, I begin again.

“I also don’t want to live in a world where you have to be in this much pain. This is the hardest thing in my life, but it has been the hardest thing for you too. I’m sure you don’t want to leave us anymore than we do.” I pause, taking a deep breath and gathering strength.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay if you go. It will be dang hard, but I’ll survive. I always do. And someday, we’ll see each other again, and you won’t be in pain. You will be healthy and strong, and the cancer will be gone forever, and everything will be perfect.” I kiss his cheek again, trying the memorize the feel of his scruffies and rough skin.

“It’s okay. You can go. I don’t want you to be in pain anymore. I love you so much.” Taking another deep breath, I say my last line: “I love you most. No matter what.” I press my cheek against his again and close my eyes.

. . .

Twenty minutes later. The room is cold, and we are all still obsessively staring at his chest. He lets out another labored, gurgling breath. The oxygen machine makes its pumping noise in the back of them room, like it always does. We freeze, our hearts stopping, waiting for the next inhale. It never comes. In shock, we can’t believe that it is over. Then, like the climax of a symphony, the air is filled with wails, sobs, and heart-wrenching cries. He’s gone. But while my sobs are shaking my body and I can feel my heart breaking, I repeat this line in my head, my last comfort... No matter what. No matter what. No matter what.