Ties

TW: Death of a parent

"I remember when I was in middle school, he told me to use a bar of soap for shampoo, like he did." I retold this irksome memory to my sister as we waited for our father to wake from his deep sleep.

   She laughed softly. "Well, he was cheap."

   "He was bald!" I exclaimed incredulously as we laughed.

   He wasn't the best father, but he wasn't the worst. As I held his weak, curled fingers, I could barely remember why I had thought he was less than perfect. His eyes opened and looked up towards the ceiling of his hospice room. He quickly focused and turned his head towards me.

   "Rett? What time is it?" He asked this same question, out loud, a dozen times a day, every day since I could remember. Always flicking his wrist to look at his watch. But today, he looked to me for the answer. He was too weak to flick his wrist.

   "Nine-twenty. Uh, twenty past nine." I corrected myself to his style of reading time.

   He was always concerned with time and schedules. Four years in the Air Force and then a railroad man, knowing the correct time was a habitual necessity.

   "Water," he said hoarsely. The medication was making him thirsty.

   I put the straw to his mouth. He gulped and nodded his head when his thirst was quenched. "Thank you," he gave a small but genuine smile.

   He was so pleasant these past two weeks. Every day, he was pleasant and sweet. It made it so much more sad. He wasn't stern. He wasn't complaining about politics or liberals. He didn't raise his voice to the well-meaning nurses who came in the room yelling, "I'm here to check your vitals." He hated yelling, even though, he was familiar with the action. These past two weeks, he was pleasant and accommodating.

   He looked around the room, slowly, making sure everything was in its place; that my sister and I were still there, that his watch was still pinned to the wall in his line of site, that his emesis bag was within reach, that the push button nightlight we had purchased for him was directly below his watch, and that his door was open. It always had to be open.

   My sister joined me at the side of his bed. She asked, "How was your night dad? Was everyone nice to you?"

   He looked at her slowly, trying to register her face and her words. He nodded, "Yes, real nice."

   His mind was so sharp. Despite his failing heart and mild stroke, his mind was solid. When the morphine and lorazepam began being administered regularly, he was slower and the hallucinations began. This was the most painful to watch. When lucid, we asked him as many questions as we could recall. Memories, family history, where he wanted his ashes, his favorite color, anything we could think of, we asked before the sedatives took effect.

   I selfishly wanted to ask, why he so quickly remarried after our mom died. I wanted to ask, why he didn't support my interests and passions when I was young. I wanted to ask why he never took me to England to visit my mother's family. I wanted to ask, was it worth it to have pinched every penny, so I had to work every day after school to pay for "unnecessary" things such as conditioner, tampons, and school yearbooks? Did he realize that the thousands of dollars each year my husband and I deposited into his bank account, triggered a petty rage inside me? I selfishly wanted to know his regrets.

   My more self-aware older sister asked, "What year did you enlist in the Air Force, dad?"   

   He raised his signature bushy eyebrows. "Oh, must have been '55. Sent to Tripoli soon after basic."

   Taking my sister's more humane cue, I asked, "When were you stationed in Margate? What year did you meet mom?"

   "England in '58, met your mother soon after." He coughed weakly, trying to clear the accumulation of mucus. He reached for his bag. "Where's my spittoon?" I quickly put it in his hands.

   He truly was from another era. His conservatism was so unusual to me. I was the youngest child by nearly a decade. Clearly an "oops" baby. I wanted to be artistic and expressive and challenge the status quo. He insisted on his daughters being reserved and not calling attention to themselves. Growing up, I felt he expected women to be small and quiet. As an adult, I realized, he just wanted us to be safe. He couldn't bear any more tragedies. He needed his daughters to be protected. How was he to know that the byproduct of his strictness would be three of his four daughters becoming innocuous housewives?

   He looked at my sister and me and smiled. "You two are good daughters. I don't know what I would have done without you two." I felt the familiar lump in my throat along with guilt.

   My sister quickly said, "We're so glad you are our dad. You were such a great dad!"

   He made a "tick" sound with his cheek as he always did. "I do wish I hadn't been so strict with you girls. Should have given you all more freedom. You both are such good mom's."

   I couldn't hide my tears. "You were probably right to be strict, dad. You kept us safe." The words poured from my mouth despite the fact that his strictness had always felt suffocating.

   The nurse knocked on the door. "Ed, I have your medicine," she brightly sang, cutting through the heaviness in the air.

   Dad nodded his head and opened his mouth. My sister furrowed her brow each time he received the "comfort zone" cocktail. She hated to see him still and immobile, so unlike who he was. Each day, I reminded her, how uncomfortable he was when he was awake, how he begged for weeks to just be asleep and not know he was dying. Still, she was understandably uncomfortable with this process.

   As he drifted off, she said, "I remember after the police showed up to our house and told us that Eddie died. I walked by the bathroom and the door was slightly ajar. I saw dad, arms leaning on the counter, head down, sobbing. I had never seen him cry." Our older brother had died in a fire when he was nineteen. It had traumatized our entire family. She continued, "Dad saw me and quickly changed his face and said, 'hey there, Kat,' and gave me a hug." Her eyes teared and she shook her head. "He's endured so much."

   It was true. Even as a kid, I wondered how one person could withstand so much loss. Despite the loss of his son, wife, and mother within a few years, he was constant.

   The nurse returned. She checked his vitals. Her face showed worry. "His blood pressure is very low and his heartbeat is increasing. It could be today, girls." She left the room, leaving my sister and I staring at each other, in shock.

   We pulled our chairs closer to dad. I rested my head on his shoulder. She held his hand and patted his leg. We shared messages from his two living siblings, his grandchildren, our other two sisters, cousins, and the daughters of his second wife who had passed a year earlier. He was loved. We wanted him to know this.

   We had spent a little more than two weeks reminiscing with our dad and each other. My sister and I had spent everyday of those two weeks with him, from eight in the morning until nine in the evening. We were exhausted and hungry and so grateful for every second with him. It was priceless.

   Over the next six hours, we recalled stories from our childhood and memories he had created with our kids. We could see his breathing change with each hour that passed. We both felt the urgency to say everything we wanted to say, but also everything he needed us to say.

   "I love that he always told us, 'just because an adult is an adult, doesn't mean they deserve your respect.' He gave us permission to question authority," I said. Then my sister and I said in unison, "Just not his authority!" We laughed.

   He took a raspy breath and then there was stillness. We looked at each other, eyes wide. We jumped up and each took a place next to his ears.

   "I love you so much, dad. Give mom and Eddie a hug for me," I lamely said through tears, trying to disguise my atheistic doubts.

   Dad's chest moved quickly, another gasp.

   "Ready for your next big adventure, dad?" My sister asked.

   His eyes opened and he was still.