My Father is Dying

My father is dying. 

He doesn't have a terminal illness.  Of course, I suppose one could consider aging a terminal illness.  All of a sudden he is looking old and I see my grandfather when I look at him.  At the age of 89 this is truly the first time I've seen him look and act old.  He has been the definition of spry for the last 20 years.  Fortunately, his mind is youthful and I can still steal his stories and his wisdom.  But, his body is giving out.  I see it more each time I visit. 

My siblings and I are all spaced six years apart.  My oldest sister was born when my father was 29 years young.  My next oldest sister was adopted when he was 35.  After my mother was told she would not have any other children of her own, I came along when my father was 41, a great surprise to all.  My younger brother was born when my father was 47, nearing 48.  My brother was also a great surprise but of a different kind at that late stage of life. 

Timing is everything.  My oldest sister was born to a World War II veteran who was fighting demons he carried back from liberating concentration camps and watching death and destruction first hand. My mother has told me that my father had a difficult transition back to life after the war, as one would expect.  He was still adjusting when my sister arrived.  I don't know that he had completed that adjustment when my second oldest sister was adopted.  Then, I came along.  He never expected me and I arrived at a time when he had settled and matured and really understood his role as a father. By the time my little brother arrived he was seeing himself look toward retirement and had not expected to be a father to a baby again in late life.  I think as he aged some of his demons returned to haunt him.  I came along at the perfect time to have a loving and strong relationship with my father, one my siblings didn't experience in the same way. 

As a young child I recall a loving and patient father.  He awoke very early to make a commute from our home in Ohio to a Pennsylvania steel mill.  He had his rituals- make coffee, have toast, read, and take in the morning.  I would often sneak out to the kitchen to join him and he would make me my own coffee.  It was mostly milk and sugar but I would imitate how he stirred and I would sip it while I watched him.  Though he enjoyed his morning quiet he never got angry when I awoke and joined him. 

We bonded over fishing and baseball in my early life.  He took me to Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates play.  We listened to the games we didn't attend on the radio in the evenings.  We waited for Willie Stargell or Dave Parker to hit one over the fence.  I got to see it in person and I heard many hits on the radio on our front porch.  I knew all the players and their stats.  I thought I might marry third baseman Phil Garner one day and my father thought that was a great choice in a mate. 

Fishing was another adventure.  The night before we would cook up something he called "dough ball".  I have no idea now what we were making but I remember it contained corn meal.  I used to run it through my fingers and feel its grainy texture.  It had sugar in it as well and it smelled sweet while it was cooking.  We arose before daylight in the morning and packed up poles and worms and dough ball and headed to the river.  I was a very hyper child.  I got into trouble often in school for talking out of turn and failing to sit still.  I am quite certain I was not a joy to fish with in the wee hours of the morning.  My father never seemed to tire of me, though.  He was very good at hiding it if he did.  He also never said a word when I was too squeamish to bait the hook.  He simply did it for me and helped me cast.  We caught carp and released them.  One day I caught a bass.  It's a day I will never forget because my father made me feel like a true fisherman.  He was so proud of me.  He praised its size, though I remember it now to be quite small, and its beauty before throwing it back in to the water.  He spoke of it all the way home and shared with my mom and my neighbors and anyone who would listen about my catch. 

As I grew older my father made me believe that I was capable of anything.  He encouraged everything I tried and I always felt like he believed I could change the world.  I've watched my own children go off to college now so I know when I left it broke his heart but I never knew then.  He smiled and let me go.  As an adult he has bragged on me more times than I can count to all of his friends.  Every small accomplishment has served as his conversation piece.  He is my biggest fan. 

My siblings did not have these experiences.  They don't understand why my father and I are so close.  My sisters see him as guarded and standoffish at times.  My brother sees him as tired and angry.  I never saw those sides of my father growing up.  As an adult I do at times but I also see a man who went to war at the age of 18 and experienced trauma beyond our imaginations.  I think he did the best that he could do and I think he was at his very best with me. 

He is not a demonstrative man.  Hugs are rare.  Kisses just don't happen.  I love you's are scarce.  But, I've never doubted his love for a moment.  He raised me on a solid foundation of it.  It was in his cups of coffee.  It was in that dough ball.  It was in our walks by the river.  It was in the hot dogs at baseball games.  It was all around me. 

He held my hand.  I remember slipping my hand into his big hand and feeling safe.  Now, I feel his hand slipping away and I wonder what I will do when it is gone.  I can rationalize that he's had a full life and I can't keep him forever.  I can tell myself I have the memories and those will console me.  I can tell myself so many things, none of which are true.  He seems ready to go softly into the dark night and he seems at peace with his next transition and his trip Home.  But, I will let him go kicking and screaming, caught between knowing I have no choice and wanting to hold on forever.  My siblings will mourn the loss of a parent and talk about their various memories of his anger and his ugly days and how they never felt loved.  I will mourn the loss of a father, a loving man who held me high on a pedestal and became my firm foundation.  My siblings and I will have much different experiences surrounding his death, just as we have in his lifetime.  I, for one, am so glad for my timing in this world and to have been the daughter of a hard working veteran who would lay down his life for me and for those he didn't even know. When he goes he will take me with him.  I will fight to remain behind simply because it's what he would expect of me and I would never want to disappoint him. 

My father is dying, and I suppose I am dying a little each day, too, as I watch him pass.  For now, I'll hold out for one more story, one more gentle touch on the small of my back, one more laugh, one more moment.  I will savor each for I fully recognize each could be the last.  And, when I have experienced the last I hope I find the strength he bestowed upon me to go back and remember them and share them and smile.