This last posting is going to be the most difficult for me to write because it's going to be about his battle with cancer. It's also going to be a bit longer, I think, than all the rest. I apologize in advance, both for the length and the emotions.
I'm actually writing this at 4:21 pm on the 29th, because I don't think I'd be able to do it after midnight. Again, my apologies.
In January of 1990, my dad and I started talking about going to Fan Fair in Nashville in June. It's the annual party for country music lovers. Back then, they held it at the state fairgrounds, and it was definitely an interesting event. You had booths that were usually set up by fan clubs, sometimes the record label, and they ran the gamut from simple booths with information and items for sale, all the way up to elaborate booths like the recording booth for Trisha Yearwood or the front porch set-up for Randy Travis. The artists would usually spend an hour or so at some point of the multiple day event at their booth, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Depending on the artist, the line could be really short or one that snaked through the building and then wrapping around outside it, like Garth Brooks' line did. The bigger artists got bigger areas, to handle larger crowds. On top of the exhibit areas, the different labels did mini shows, showcasing both established and new artists. It was definitely an event to go to and we definitely wanted to go. We never made it.
While planning the trip, I'd bought tickets to two concerts in the area. One was a show at the Knickerbocker arena in March, Ricky Van Shelton and Randy Travis, and the other show was k.d. lang at Proctors. Her show was beyond belief. We sat in the side balcony nearest the stage. The seats were plush and we had great views. The cool thing was, her voice was so large that she didn't really need the mics. And she talked to the audience. It was something not to be missed and my father loved it.
The show in Albany was different. My dad was having some pain issues. He'd always had problems with ulcers and he thought they were acting up again. Food wasn't a great experience and he was having issues with sitting for too long on hard surfaces. We had seats on the bleachers, to the side of the stage and he was moving a lot, trying to get comfortable. Ricky Van Shelton had to cancel his section of the show due to laryngitis, but Randy Travis did a longer show and more than made up for it. My dad enjoyed the show but he was glad to get off the hard bleacher and into the padded seat of my car.
The next month was hard for him. He kept eating less food and was losing weight. Now my dad, unlike me, was never fat. He might have had a slight stomach but he really couldn't afford to lose weight. It just didn't look good on him to lose it. So we finally convinced him to go see the doctor, who sent him for some tests. They found a mass on an x-ray and he went for a colonoscopy. I remember the date he got the results very well. It was Friday, April 13, 1990. Good Friday.
The results were he had colon cancer and they said he needed immediate surgery. So he went in for surgery shortly after Easter. They ended up doing a colostomy but they told us they couldn't remove the tumor because it was too invasive. It had spread beyond the walls of the colon and they weren't quite sure exactly how far it had spread. Their course of action was radiation.
For the next 2 months, he had these interesting drawings on his butt cheeks. It was the target areas for the radiation and they drew them with Sharpies, so they didn't wash off easily. Not that it would really be a big deal with my dad. He used to joke with us that it wasn't time for his once a year bath so he didn't know why they made such a fuss over them markings.
For 2 months, I watched my dad eat small bites of food and walk away. I watched him shift constantly as he sat and watched tv or read a book. He spent more time in the basement on his cb radio. Our trip to Nashville was 'postponed til next year' when he knew he'd feel better. And each weekend, he went to the AAA office across the street from SCCC to do his shifts as emergency dispatcher. I think the job kept him grounded, giving him something 'normal' to look forward to.
I moved out in June to my own apartment in Schenectady. It wasn't far from where I worked at GE and it was a huge place and relatively cheap. I found out why in the winter but all summer it was great. My dad helped me move, using his car to help me bring down some of my smaller items. He liked it, said it wasn't bad for a first real apartment of my own.
In July, I spent the night at home one night and it was one of those hot, muggy nights. I had the blinds open and was watching the lightning around 2 am, when I heard some sounds in the dining room. I thought it was the dog so I got up and went out there. It wasn't the dog; it was my dad. He was sitting at the table, head in his hands, crying from the pain. My dad never cried from pain. He'd complain about it like a baby, make a lot of noise, but crying just wasn't something he did. So this really shook me up. I didn't want him to know I'd seen it so I quietly went back into the living room and left him alone.
I spent most of that summer making sure my dad got to see all the country concerts that came to town. George Strait, Willie Nelson, Marty Stuart... anyone who came to town that my dad liked, he got to see. I remember that one of the concerts he really wanted to see was Reba but it was at the same time that he was possibly going to be in the hospital for surgery. He told me to sneak him out to see her. "Bring me in a wheelchair, bring me on a gurney, but I'm seeing Reba in concert."
During her concert, she did several costume changes and at one point, she came out in this red sequined gown and Dad told me to take a picture. Then she turned around, revealing this really deep plunging back and he hit my arm, saying "You better make sure you get a shot of that." I did.
While looking at her merchandise, Dad saw this tshirt with a picture of her fully on the front. I ended up buying two, one for him and one for me. He told me on the way home that he wanted to be buried in that shirt. I joked with him that I'd make a shirt with a picture of mom on it and he said "I've lived with her for nearly 40 years. I want to be buried with Reba near my heart. Your mom won't mind, since I'll be gone.
On November 8, I went home for dinner. Dad wasn't feeling well. He sat out at the table for a while but he went to his room to get into bed around 9. I went in with him for a while and we talked about his pain. He thought it was because he'd forgotten to take his stool softener that day so we joked about what to do to get it going. I told him I'd go buy a bottle of prune juice if he thought that would help. He said that it would pass. At some point, he got tired so I left and went to my place.
Now, my mom had called me every morning since I'd moved out, just to make sure I was awake. I may have groused about it a bit but I did kinda use her call as a backup alarm. On the 9th, she never called. I was at work, making copies, when a friend and co-worker came and told me my mom was on the phone and that it was an emergency. It was about 11:20 a.m. and all I could think was, my mom thinks the cat bringing up a fur ball is an emergency, so I told my friend to tell her I'd be there in a second and finished carrying the copies to my desk.
It wasn't a fur ball but God, I wish it had been. "Teri, your dad is in the ER at St. Clare's hospital. It doesn't look good. You'd better get here fast." I was in shock. I remember friends getting me there and me sitting there waiting to go in and see him. When I did, he looked grey. He'd been brought in at 3 that morning, when the tumor had finally erupted. They couldn't find a bp when he'd been brought in, even though he walked into the ER under his own power. They were so sure he wasn't going to make it, they didn't find him a bed until nearly 16 hours later.
For the next 3 weeks, it was an emotional roller coaster. He did ok. He had to have 2 surgeries in one day. The tumor was gone. He had a major infection from when it burst. He was moved into ICU. He was moved into a room on the surgical floor. Back to ICU. I remember my mom arguing with one doctor because this man was telling her that sometimes, we have to know when the fight is over and that the surgeon didn't want to do surgery. That was on the phone. By the time she got there, they were prepping him for surgery and the surgeon said he didn't know if he could save him but he DID know how he'd feel if my dad died and he'd done NOTHING.
One funny memory from that time period: My dad was in the ICU and they were having problems with his blood pressure being too low. So I told the nurse, "Want to see it go up? Watch this." I then showed my dad the pictures of Reba in her red dress from the concert earlier that summer. Sure enough, up went his pressure. I was tempted to give her the picture, to show him whenever they wanted it up a bit but I didn't.
Thanksgiving 1990, my younger sister decided to do dinner, to give my mom a break. My mom had been diagnosed with colon cancer herself in late August/early September and was going to have surgery in December. Beth thought she'd help out by doing dinner. Of course, we all joked with my dad that we might end up in the ER right near him in the ICU, since it was Beth's first attempt. Somehow, we all survived.
On Wednesday, November 28th, I saw my father alive for the last time. I went to see him once I got out of work. We talked for a bit about the doctors thoughts that he might come home on Monday. We joked about football. When I noticed him getting tired, I told him I was going to leave and that I'd see him on Friday, since I had to work late the next night. He said, "Pop in. If I'm awake, we'll talk. If not, well, at least you got to see me sleeping." But I told him I'd rather see him sleeping in his own bed and I'd come see him on Friday. "Okay kiddo, you do what you have to do." His last words to me as I left the room was, "Hey kiddo. You know I love you, right? See you tomorrow."
The next night, I finished work and went home. A friend called me and asked for a ride home so I picked her up. Once I got home, I was relaxing in my favorite chair and half dozing when the phone rang. It was my sister, letting me know that mom had been called to the hospital. Dad wasn't doing well and they wanted her there. They'd let us know if we should get there. I was worried but figured if it was serious, Mom would have let us all know.
At 12:45 a.m., my phone rang. "Get to the hospital. Dad's dying. Mom's there. Go." I ran out of the house with slippers on my feet and no coat. I ran 5 red lights on my way there. As I got there and was racing into the hospital, Dick came out and told me he was on his way to get my aunt, that my dad had just died. I missed seeing him alive by less than 2 minutes.
My dad was a mixture of weird ethics, outright lies, and love that you didn't always recognize as love when it was happening. He loved country music, bluegrass, and rock. He could bullshit his way through almost any situation, especially when he wasn't knowledgeable about something. He loved to read and his favorites were westerns, sci-fi/fantasy, and romances. He knew just enough about religion to make him dangerous when the roving missionaries stopped to try and get us to convert to their religion. Most of all, he was my dad and I loved him. Still do.
Oh and yes, he did wear Reba's shirt under his suit. My shirt, actually, because I couldn't find his until the day AFTER he was buried. Dad definitely won again.
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