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Remembering: February 24th, 2009
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
This was the day before Dad's retirement ceremony and I was very busy. I was cleaning, ordering food, making sure my sister was coming, and so many other things. Dad was feeling ok that morning, but he spent more of the day asleep than awake. He would follow me into the room I was cleaning, make himself comfortable, and then fall asleep. Sometimes he would be right in the middle of explaining the best way for me to do something when I would hear him snoring.
Early that afternoon, the hospice nurse came by to check Dad's vitals. As I watched her brow furrow, I became increasingly concerned. While Dad had been remarkably peppy five days ago when she last came, his disease was quickly taking hold. She was glad his retirement ceremony was the next day. After we convinced Dad to take some oxygen and rest, she and I shared a moment in the kitchen. I looked in her knowledgeable eyes, and asked her how it would happen. She explained in detail how his ailments were going to be too much for him, and as I remember the words now they are still hard to digest.
One symptom of his degeneration was his hands shaking. It began innocent enough, a small tick here, a slight twitch there. Now, it was like his hand was predicting where it might need to be minutes ahead of time. I was concerned about how to hide it when his friends were there the next day. I decided I would just hold his hand, and be his physical and emotional support.
After the nurse left, I decided to call Dad's brother, Manny. The first day I had moved in with Dad, we had made a list of who to call when things got bad. We never defined what bad meant and I decided this was it. When Uncle Manny answered, his voice sounded so strong and similar to what Dad's used to sound like I immediately began to cry. Dad had chosen not to tell his family that he was no longer receiving treatment, explaining that they would worry and want to come out. I recognized how difficult it was for Dad to let people see him the way he was, so I never argued. But after what the nurse had said, it was time to explain things.
I gave Uncle Manny a brief synopsis of what the nurse had said, and asked when he could come down from North Carolina. He spoke stream of consciousness, already preparing how to move things around so he could be there on Saturday. As I hung up the phone, I felt glad that I had called. I knew Dad would be upset, but I would take it as it came.
Then Dad's phone rang, and kept ringing all night long. A few hours later he was awake, and yelling in Spanish that I had overreacted and everything was fine. Needless to say, he was very frustrated with me. I called Uncle Manny late that night and explained that he should just surprise Dad Saturday.
In hind sight, I should have made Uncle Manny come down that night. Maybe then he would have been able to speak with his brother before he slipped into a coma. But I decided to not push the issue with Dad, it was his decision.
There was a final bright moment before Dad went to bed, and it was while talking with my grandmother. During this whole process, I spoke with my grandmother everyday. I wanted my grandparent to speak with Dad so he wouldn't be mad at me anymore about calling his brother. As the conversation turned serious, I heard my Dad say something so wonderful I will never forget it. He said:
She has a big heart mom, and I'm so proud she is my daughter
In those 14 words, my Dad made every difficult moment that had happened and even those that I couldn't imagine yet, the least I could do for him. After a lifetime of him taking care of me, it was my turn. Dad was also acknowledging that at the end of this, I would be the only one left and I would have to bear the whole burden. And he was sorry for that. In that moment, I have never been more proud to be my Dad's daughter.
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