One moment, someone you love is breathing, and the next minute, they aren’t, but people we love don’t pass out of our lives that quickly. We experience their passing in flash-forwards as well as flashbacks. This is how I experienced my Dad’s demise in the late fall and early winter of 2004. Perhaps you won’t get my story and wonder why you are wasting your time; perhaps my story will unlock something in your heart. Perhaps you are thinking about it for the first time; perhaps it is familiar. Perhaps you will share your story; perhaps you will keep it to yourself. If it serves you, embrace it; if it diminishes you, release it. As Joni Mitchell has sung to us so many times, “Think of all the things I could have done, but clouds got in my way”.
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Quinter and his favorite Oliver tractor, 1950
The Days I Experience Dad’s Death
I’m at my suburban Smith Barney office on Route 66 across from Trader Joe’s. I’m fiddling with my Plantronics headset, deciding if it’s too early to pack it in and go home when I get the call. You took a step backward, but your 92-year-old feet were snared, strangled in tall grass, and just like that boom, you were making a snow angel, except it was in newly mown hay, not snow; you were flat on your back, and your C7 was no longer intact.
I fly to Decatur, Illinois, and walk into room 734, St. Mary’s Hospital. You are asphyxiating, your breath trapped between inhale and exhale, your ribs and lungs immobilized. I have inherited your go-to fear: “I can’t breathe.” Fresh air and working out of doors have been your life. I understand that now, for you, a life without fresh air is not worth living. We have the talk again. What will happen to the farm? No, I won’t necessarily do business with the lowest bidder for cash rent. Yes, I do know the tenant should be paid enough so he will replenish the soil and not strip it.
I take a break and walk the halls, passing a family of Amish sitting vigil outside the room of their loved one. Since elementary school, Dr. Shackleford, our family physician, told me: “Every hospitalized loved one needs a team of advocates, and the Amish do it right.” Toddler twins stop squirming and watch me pass, peeking out from underneath their matching bonnets, while voile, top-stitching, untied chin straps mingling with their blond wisps, identical dresses made from flour-sack prints, wide-eyed, understanding that most dress differently from them, they stop mid-giggle and stare as I walk by, calf-hugging leather boots, a midi skirt with lots of movement, a bright jade poncho over an electric purple turtleneck. Their heads follow me, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, like baby birds hungry for worms.
I’m at the Steak and Shake with a gray metal drive-in tray hanging from my window when I get the call, you are worse. The onion rings stink. Next time, I’ll just get the fries. I lose my appetite and taste for deep-fried foods now that I link them with your situation worsening. I’m only two miles away, but it seems like twenty. I hold your hand and ache because I know you are not ready to go, are afraid of dying, and because I don’t want to lose you.
You make New Year’s Eve memorable by choosing that day to transition. We surround your bed: your loving wife of the past 22 years; her eldest, the sister of my heart; my sister, the sister I never understood; and me. You become agitated. Your eyes lock with mine, and you plead, “Help me.” I push the call button. A team comes running. They push us out of the room, and I look over my shoulder, seeing you alive for the last time.
So, Dad, these days, I practice mindfulness, and that’s how I’ve finally forgiven myself that I couldn’t comply with your last request. I know you don’t blame me; you love me anyway, just like you always did throughout my imperfect life. Time passes, and now it’s my turn to worry about falling, about simply breathing. I wish we could talk, but, we do, and I hope you are listening. You might be pleased that I recently mentioned your name on social media, and half a dozen childhood friends told me what a great guy you were. Many of your down-home but wise, endearing traits remind me of a guy on TV these days that people like. His name is Ted Lasso.
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing. <3