Cicadas buzz in the sorrow of night. Late summer heat and humid fear vibrates on my skin. Insomnia breeds paranoia and terror.
Dad’s gone. Two days left of this visit. My first one back since his death. This is not a night, or a day, but an in between. A purgatory. I remember another sleepless night in this bed a year ago. They’d found the cancer that killed him in the frozen dead of winter. We were hopeful then. We sat at dinner, over Mom’s vegetarian bbq. He was in a good mood as they discussed the spot on his pancreas.
God would heal.
Later, abandoned by sleep and haunted by the future, I feared losing him when there was so much left to say. Not unsaid things. But things that were on their way. And unremembered things. I kept meaning to ask why he walked away from God for 15 years when he was my age. There were other things like that, but he was dying and our will was bent towards his living.
He died in a horrible hospital bed in front of me, my mom and my aunt. His body turned to stone, his breath to ash and I—what? I what? I stopped? I pushed? I lived, though I still don’t know how.
I shut my eyes and walk the halls of that hospital as if it were today. I can smell the antiseptic and the February wind on heavy winter coats as the big double doors slide open to the street. I’d walk to the cafeteria feeling nothing, look at the food for what felt like hours, then walk away with coffee. Food felt guilty.
I stood on the shore watching grief swell out to sea in a tidal wave that hovered for a year. Now it crashes and I am drowning. God, he’s gone.
But he was infinite. A load bearing wall without whom our house crumbles. I called him Pops. “That’s me.” He’d say.
I stared at his corpse to remember it…
“Dad I hate my life and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m tired and I don’t know how to rest.” I want to tell him, but I’d never tell him that. It was too intimate and he’d start problem-solving and that would be the end of that conversation. I’m irritating myself. I’ve been whining all my life. Jesus Christ, he’s dead. Leave him alone.
My husband is a concert pianist. He gave a recital the week my father was dying. Three days before my father’s death I played the Brahms for him. He loved Brahms. I thought they might bring him some small comfort. I never imagined he’d really know who was playing or why. But he knew. He opened his eyes and said, “Oooohhhhh….” And nodded his head. I was horrified. My only comfort during that time was believing that he was unaware. But he wasn’t. He knew he was dying.
Nothing prepares you to watch your parent die.
In the moments before his final breath, I was writing an email then heard my mother say, “What honey? Are you leaving me?”And he was. He opened his eyes and his last ragged breath escaped his disease-addled frame. If there were ever a time to quote Marlon Brando from the final scene in Apocalypse Now, it was then. “The horror. The horror. The horror.” I used to say that and laugh. But at that moment I recognized the truth of it. No more laughs. Into the heart of darkness I go.
He may be in an afterlife, he may have ceased to exist
I stared at his corpse to remember it. I just needed to know what death looked like. It looked sort of like my Dad, but not really.Temple Grandin, when she first saw a cow die cried out, “But where did it go?” That’s what death looks like.
Tonight, it’s silent and still. My father used to wander the halls with his insomnia. I’d hear the floorboards creak beneath his feet. I’d slip out into the darkness and meet him in the kitchen, occasionally. We’d eat pretzels and talk. Sometimes there wouldn’t be much to say, we’d just munch.
I give up on sleep and creep downstairs to forage for something, though there are no more pretzels. I pass his office. He had a bed there where he lay when he was sickest. It’s still there, but for the first time I don’t expect to see him in it and instead of great sorrow, I know relief. His agony is no more. He could be in an afterlife, he may have ceased to exist. I may never know, but I can find comfort today in knowing his pain has ended.
A stillness fills the rooms.
Insights From The Edge 
This moved me to tears. And it is so as you said, “His agony is no more.”
Me too! And so reminds of my own Dad’s going, though there are differences of course, but very honest, open and lovingly written, thanks for sharing.
Thank you so much. The outpouring of comfort from everyone is overwhelming.
Thank you, Mary. That means so much.
I don’t know if there’s any comfort in knowing that this is beautifully written, but it is.
Always, Ellen, always. Thank you.
I was hesitant to press “like”, but as a cancer survivor myself, and also someone who is fatherless…..I empathise so much with you. I know us “Innies” don’t do hugs so much, but I would, I think, squeeze your hand at least. 🙂
So glad you’re a survivor. Thank you. I like the virtual hand squeeze.
I don’t even know what to say. ‘This is really good’ falls kind of flat. But it is.
Well, that’s far more than flat to me.
I was very moved by the telling of your experience. It took me back to the death of my own father in similar circumstances. ((hug))
Reblogged this on HarsH ReaLiTy and commented:
Such raw emotion beautifully illustrated with word strings of feeling that we the reader can follow. I don’t often come across posts that move me, but this did. Thank you for sharing a part of yourself. -OM
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A beautiful post. I hope you don’t mind that I shared it.
I’m honored. Thank you.
Your words were worth sharing!
Such difficult emotion to confront, but you express it so beautifully. Being able to do so will go a long way in your healing. So sorry for your loss, just know that the depth of feeling speaks to the quality of the relationship. ❤️
Beautiful sentiment. So true. Thank you.
Thank you for the kind words. And you’re right, writing about it does go a long way towards healing.
A beautiful, loving tribute to honor a loved one.
Thank you for visiting and for reading that long post.I appreciate the kind words.
I loved this post. Your love for your father shines through the sorrow. Bless. 🙂
He does? That was my intent. Thank you for reading and commenting.
No prob Amy 🙂
You have such a way with words. I’m sorry for your loss.
Thank you for your compassion and for the compliment.
Such sorrow and written beautifully with the pen therein. In life Joy and Sorrow intertwine it is life. My father died of lung cancer this past June and I was at his bedside so I know what you went through. Be well
Thank you. I’m so sorry regarding your father as well. Nothing prepares you.
Not for the sting it doesn’t.
Wow, this is the most beautiful tribute I have ever read… your words are more of a song than mere words. I don’t think I have ever been so moved. Blessings to you!
Thank you so much, Lori. I really appreciate your kindness and your reblog. I’m so touched to hear it moved you.
You are most welcome, Amy. It truly did move me… deeply. 🙂
Reblogged this on As the Fates Would Have It and commented:
A most moving and endearing tribute to a parent lost to cancer.
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Very well expressed, Amy. Reading this feels like being there, with the sadness, fear, anger, and uncertainty; and the hollowness of comforts like food when some great loss is overwhelming your system. I liked your reference to Apocalypse Now (and that you also referenced there Heart of Darkness); nice touch. This was a poignant way to share a very human and very emotional experience on the often impersonal medium of the internet.
I appreciate that you connected with the Apocalypse Now reference. I wondered if that was a sore thumb.
Simply beautiful tribute. You’ve put into words what I’ve been feeling since my father passed last year but have been unable to express.
That’s the highest compliment. Thank you so much for reading.
So beautiful and yet so heartbreaking! Thank you for sharing your most inner personal thoughts!
I nominated you for the Versatile Blogger Award! http://theviewfrommywindowlaura.com/2016/01/25/4940/
Wow. Thank you. I will look at that when I get a work break. I’m humbled.
Thank you for sharing your love for your Pops. The loss can be unbearable, the past joys forgotten. But …the joy will return, the loss will never be forgotten.
Thanks for calling him pops. That made my day. Brought him right back.
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