With Dave not here, and my Father not living, I am feeling empty inside.
It sounds extreme, I know, but it is how I feel. There is a never ending guilt that rips me apart, and before you read this I will warn you: IT IS NOT A HAPPY STORY.
I want to wish my husband, best friend and confidant (oddly, all the same person) a happy Father’s Day across the ocean. You have no idea how bad I need you now.
A friend and I were talking the other night and she asked me how my Dad died. I wanted to say “cancer,” but so much came flowing from me, I ended up in tears- wondering why I couldn’t stop this ache in my heart. I was in pain, knowing I would miss Dave and my Dad this year. I don’t think I can take missing more than just my Dad.
Being that I was 13, this is how I remember my Father’s illness and passing. It was a long time coming, but only a short diagnosis period. It was painful, and carried the stench of chemicals and death. I sometimes catch a scent that turns my stomach and brings back wretched memories of the medicinal smells you will only find in the oncology unit.
My Dad ate Tums by the jug- those BIG ones you could only get at Sam’s Club in the 90’s. He was diagnosed with acid reflux for 2 years. I used to go to the doctor with him sometimes (you gotta bring your kids places) and once a nurse couldn’t find his pulse. I’m not kidding. The look of uneasiness on her face- even a 12 year old could feel how unnerved she was. It was the scariest thing I’d ever experienced.
When my parents came home on my 13 birthday (Monday, November 10, 1997) with a diamond and tanzanite ring, no cake, no card, and my Dad gave it to me alone, with red eyes embodying his usually bright brown eyes, I knew. Somehow I knew he was going to die. That Wednesday (November 12th) we were all sitting at UPENN’s hospital. I asked what surgery he was getting. My mom said “a tube for chemo”. I answered “but you only get chemo if you have cancer.” No one said anything. My Dad called me before surgery in the family waiting room. I told him I loved him and laid my head down on my Mom’s lap.
He died April 21, 1998.
He tried to leave the room, like a dog. To die alone. He was walked back. It was the first time he’d moved in days. The night before I heard a doctor tell my mom he wasn’t sure if my Dad would live through the night. The next day my Dad was moved to hospice. I didn’t know what hospice was. I thought it was just another ward.
When he got up, I thought it was a good thing.
Someone kept repeating “tell him it’s OK.” Everyone did but me. So I chimed in. My face pressed into his ear. I let the words slip, “it’s OK.”
And he was gone.
I’d let him go and he went. The fluid stopped gurgling in his chest and his body rested into the bed.
What did I do?
I’ve asked myself that question for years- no amount of therapy can change it. I said it was OK. And he went.
Dad, I miss you so bad. I wish you were here to tell you what a great job you did. Really! We are all OK. We aren’t perfect, but we are Worth’s. I want to tell you how much I love you. I want you to tell me you love me, too. I want you to meet your granddaughter and son-in-law. I want you to shake his hand and love him like a son. I want to see you bring Addie to her first Flyers’ game. I’m sorry you had to go. I’m sorry I told you it was OK. It wasn’t. I need you. I love you.
Happy Father’s Day to the man who hung the moon.
An amazing father…
Thank you for sharing the memories of your father. I bet you make him so very proud 🙂
I wish I knew your dad. I’ve visited him at whitemarsh a couple times and spoken to him often about what an amazing family he has and how lucky I am to know them. Thinking of you today <3
My heart overflows with the heartsoar and the heartbreak. How can anyone write these two words in one sentence? I feel your love for your Dad. I feel its depth and height and BIGness. I feel it all the way to my soul. But how do we reconcile the loss of this love? I have been asking myself this for 38 years. 38 years of missing, because there’s always something we want to share with our Dads. There’s been marriage and baby carriages and unbounded joy, but there’s always that tug of IF ONLY. My Dad was 47 when he died of cardiac arrest. He had had a heart attack 4 years before, but that day in August 1975 put a hole in my heart that is irreconcilable to my heart, my soul, my mind. I had seen my Dad just the night before… there was no permission to give or not give… he stood at our front door as I drove away in my VW Bug and called, “Do you need anything, Sis? (he called me Sis).” How could I have known to answer, “I need YOU, Dad. Forever. Please know how much I need YOU.” I answered, “Nope,” because of course I was thinking he wanted to slip me 20 bucks for gas or food or just something fun. He had already given me one of his famous hugs. He stood at the door and waved and blew me a kiss and I never saw him again. I could not see him dead. He didn’t want that. We had always talked about wakes and the Irish things my Mom’s family did. I knew he would not want me to see him dead. My Mom was so devastated that I did all the arrangements… in a cloud of despair I went about the work of burying my Dad. My Dad. I wore a white dress to his funeral, the one he loved, the one I had interviewed in and gotten my first teaching job just 2 weeks before. I remember everything. That’s the imprint on my brain. The day everything in my life changed. Forever. I talk to my Dad every single day. He rides with me in my car, he helps with my Mom, whom he adored, he gives me advice, he comes in pink and purple balloons. I have so many pink and purple balloon stories that even my non-believing family members now have to believe. One miracle happened this week with a pink balloon… I will share this soon on my blog. But one thing I can tell you, my dear friend, is that I will trade all this time and heartache if I must… for my Dad being in my life, if that’s the choice I had to make. Bill (his name) taught me all about love and life and kindness and humor and JOY. His brilliant mind was like a wildly lit lightbulb… a boy who grew up on a farm in Michigan and joined the Navy at age 17… to meet my Mom in Boston on New Year’s Eve 1950… and give me life and love and JOY beyond measure… and a love of learning, because he insisted on love of learning, and love of family. He knew everything. He was a giant sponge. Sometimes I think he had to go because he had already done everything he could here on earth. But I remember his last words to me, his last blown kiss… his last hug. I DO NEED SOMETHING. I NEED HIM. But he has sent more LOVE than can be measured. He knew I would go on. He knew. Your Dad knew. They changed everything, but they knew what they were doing. I do know this. I do know this… xox
I can’t tell you how bad I hurt for you because I can’t seem to catch my breath for me, but I wish I could fix it. I wish I could bring them back. Thank you for sharing with me… I feel so alone and lost and I can’t seem to get a grip today.