To My Father

Well folks, as you can see, thesecondchance took a historic recess for a few months. Instead of offering excuses, I'll just start setting bottles on the counter in hopes of getting you all drunk enough to forgive me. It is safe to say that I chastise myself far more than all of you. This post is about my relationship to my dad and my experience of his death. It is intended to be a reflection and an expression of gratitude. I propose this as a toast to my father.

In less than a week, my family lost one and gained two. On Monday, July 13, I received a call from my mother who told me that I needed to get on the road right away if I had any hopes of seeing my father before he died. She was upset as she told me that she woke up with him that morning and he did not immediately recognize her. Later that afternoon, I left with Robyn to make the 8.5 hour drive to Missouri. On the way there, I received another call from Mom who sounded quite upset. She said that Dad had just entered into a non-responsive semi-comatose state and she was not sure I would get there in time before he passed. Breaking a moderate amount of traffic laws, I arrived there on Tuesday morning around 2 am and ran in the house. I found the room where my Dad was lying. About a week prior I had a relatively coherent conversation with him. Now, he was simply lying there nonresponsive. Once the cancer reached a certain point, it was swift and vicious. He woke up from this nonresponsive state 2 times, once on Tuesday and once early on Wednesday morning. The first time he recognized me and smiled. Those who know anything about my dad know his smile. The second time he asked for my mom and asked to kiss her several times. Neither time he woke up was he really "there"; he spoke things that didn't make sense. But the second time he woke, he asked for "2 or 3 more" kisses from my mom, even after she had given him a few already. That was the last time he awakened. With him being in hospice care, we each took shifts watching over him and giving him the appropriate medication and care. I spent 3 full nights with him, watching him breathe ever so erratically. He had sleep apnea so there were times where he waited almost 20 seconds between breaths. The sound of hearing him breathe, which I listened to for hours upon hours, is a sound I will never forget. On Wednesday night, his body began to run a significant temperature of about 103 degrees. As the time went by, his temp kept rising. As his temp rose, his hands became so hot they were uncomfortable for me to touch. I have never felt that kind of heat from a human body. By the time he passed that morning, his temperature had reached a scorching 108.9 degrees. His body was literally shutting itself down. At one point early that morning, his breathing began to change to a moan as his body began to release air. I asked Robyn to go wake my mom and my cousin as I knew it was time. We all stood there and listened to the sound of death in his breath, a terrifying sound that can only be described as "death." I have had few, if any, times in my life where I felt so relieved. I didn't have to watch and wonder whether he was suffering anymore. After a few minutes, I walked over and laid my head on his chest. I wanted to hear the quiet. I wanted to know the battle raging inside of him was over. I wanted to hear its end...and I did.

This experience was indescribable for me. On one level, it was terribly excruciating and I would never want to go through it again. On another level, it allowed me time to say goodbye, to give my dad a parting gift of true love. I gave him morphine drops every 15-30 minutes. I put cold rags on his head and hands as his fever rose (this might have admittedly been more comforting to me than him because the nurse said he wasn't feeling any pain...but I couldn't handle the doubt so I did it anyways). I swabbed his mouth and put on chapstick for him. I helped change his diapers. I held his head and kissed it when I wanted, which was uncomfortably often. When your dad's dying, you get the pass on sentimentality.

People say you don't know what you got til it's gone. Maybe most times you can't know til they're gone. Not fully. I had a lot of time to think as I looked at his gaunt face and listened to his erratic breathing. I thought of memories...the good, the bad, the absurd, the unique. One moment I'd think of his ridiculous jokes he'd tell repeatedly and how he'd amazingly laugh equally hard each time he told them. Another moment I'd think of how his parents never knew how to love him but how much my mom did and how my dad never really knew how to love her back. And how all those pieces fit almost too easily to make this puzzle that we call life so tragic. And so doable. And then I'd think of lost opportunities...his...mine... Of the times we spent together and the times we didn't. I thought of how much of my dad I could see in me...the good, the bad, and especially the silly. I thought of the St. Louis Cardinals and how I inherited his ridiculous obsession for that team. Of the University of Alabama football and how I inherited that obsession as well, even though I get embarrassed by the fans, not to mention the state, more often than not. I thought of our shared love for animals and the fact that he's the only person in this world who would name his cat "Trash" and that his cat would somehow turn out to have an infinitely better personality than my own cat, ironically named "Shalom." I also thought of how we both liked to sit and watch birds, as if somehow I had moved ahead in time and we were now just two old timers killing a day we didn't know how to belong in. And I thought of how in spite of all this affection for animals, he spent his life killing insects, and how things like that can make sense in this world. And how in the times they don't, they probably should. I thought of how for years my Dad and I would write cards to each other on the proper occasions and sign our letters with "Remember the Stump," a reference to a time when I was a teenager and we were at a park standing side by side, each with a leg propped on an old stump, having a meaningful conversation. The best part is that neither of us remember what was said. I never told him I didn't remember but I knew he didn't remember either. But to me, that's what made it special. With our comically bad set of genes and amateurish luck, we forged a memory by speaking it into being. We always remembered the stump, not because it was particularly memorable, but because we wanted to. Because we could. Because father and son is father and son and that needs no explanation. It just is what it is.

In those few nights I spent with him as he died, I came to some resolution. My father’s life in many ways had been a gift to his sons. In a way I never felt possible while he was conscious, I could say thank you. My hope is that in whatever place, or life, or world my dad now lives, he will see that I have become the proud man he had always raised me to be - a hard worker who never quits, a man who stands by, and will fall for, his friends, a man who speaks plainly in his search for truth, a man who will take care of his lady, a man who knows how to laugh, a man who knows how to cry, a man who believes in himself and says "I can" even when he thinks he can't, a man who has conviction and passion and a faith that has led him precisely to this place of needing to shed religion in order to embrace life fully. I am a man who will relentlessly love my son or daughter someday, who will teach them to correct my mistakes and to make their own, but to never regret them. I will raise my children to be the kind of adult my father raised me to be. A proud one. A Lyons.

Here's to my dad.

Goodbye Dad.

Cheers.