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Mr. Zoo: You know what I find sad?
Zoo: What’s that?
Mr. Z: You never had mittens.
Zoo: Huh?
Mr. Z: Growing up. You never had mittens. You never had the mittens that attach to your coat with the little strings, so you wouldn’t lose them.
Zoo: That’s true.
Mr. Z: Sad.
Zoo: I also never built a snowman, made a snow angel, had a snowball fight. At least not until college. At which time I also got to experience being pinned down during a snowball fight and having snow rubbed in my face.
Mr. Z: Did you ever have a snowball with a rock inside thrown at you?
Zoo: WHAT???
Mr. Z: Yeah. That hurts.
Zoo: Yikes.
Zoo: But you never had a Slip ‘N Slide growing up.
Mr. Z: True.
Zoo: You never got to run and slide down that thing, not knowing if it was going to be the best ride of your life or if there was going to be a sharp rock or twig poking through to impale yourself on.
Mr. Z: Sad.
This week I learned that a friend that I’ve had since we were 15 lost her father last week in an unexpected and tragic way. Being friends in high school and college (read: before we had our own places), we were at each other’s houses a lot and were a part of each other’s families. She’s the only high school friend I regularly kept in touch with, which means she knows and understands more about me and my history than almost anyone, in those ways that can’t be explained, because she was there. Her dad was one of those gruff dads who pretended to be scary because he got his chuckles from being intimidating to his kids’ friends, but he was really a funny, easy-going guy, a Vietnam vet, a hippie. Her parents got married in a forest wearing jeans and matching flannel shirts, which is a long way of saying they’re from Eugene, Oregon. He was a talented craftsman and contractor (the houses they’ve had since I’ve known them have all been lovingly restored and just beautiful). He did the final stages of our deck for us just because he’s a good guy. He stayed late at her 30th birthday party (that I couldn’t attend), telling her friends stories about me.
I’ve never really talked about this, with anyone, but I am still haunted by the way I handled (or mis-handled) things when my father was dying. We were originally told on September 16, 2004, that he had 2-3 months left. In the next few weeks, as we all wandered around in a state of shock, with us kids being several thousand miles away, we waited. Waited to see what our parents wanted, waited to see if we were going to all go home for Christmas and have one last holiday season together, waited to see if what my dad wanted was individual time with all of us, waited…just waited. I was paralyzed by my inaction. My few phone conversations with my dad were as abbreviated as they always were, except instead of him asking polite questions about work and the weather and how my car was doing, it was me awkwardly asking him if he was OK. In one conversation, he snapped at me that of COURSE he wasn’t OK. I don’t think I ever even told him I was sorry he was dying, I just couldn’t say the words. I always ended our conversations with “I love you” and he answered with what he always did, “Me too, kid.” Obviously, my dad and I didn’t Talk About Things. Which is partly why I avoided making plans to go home.
In the last conversation we had, before we had any indication it would be the last, my dad kept telling me not to come home. My mom says he was worried about us spending money (like it would be a waste to spend money to fly home only to have to pay for another trip home for the funeral). It sounds like him, but I’m also guessing it made him extremely uncomfortable to think about being surrounded by all of us for the sole purpose of some long, deathbed goodbye scene. And frankly, it made me uncomfortable too. So I didn’t. My sister, on the other hand, took it upon herself to just go, regardless of what he said. She was a huge help to my mom in his care, and was able to be there for the last week that he was lucid. She was there at a Portuguese Chamber of Commerce banquet that honored him as a past president, where he was in good spirits, gave a speech, and enjoyed drinks and a cigar with his friends. The next day he fell into a coma and passed away less than a week later, on October 11, 2004. I made it home 24 hours before he died.
I know my dad loved me. I know that in my head. But in my heart I’ve had a hard time forgiving myself for being such a chicken and dealing with the awkwardness of his dying the way I deal with most difficult things: inaction, by putting my head in the sand, by not doing anything until it was too late to do something. I’m not proud of it. And I know that I’ve learned from it and wouldn’t let that happen again with, say, my mom or husband. The fact that I am closer emotionally and more comfortable with my mom and husband than my dad may have to do with it, but I’m trying to learn to live in a way to prevent future regrets.
When my friend told me about her dad’s death, she told me that since my dad died, she felt inspired to have some heart-to-hearts with her dad, that things were on really good terms between them because they had both made the effort to really talk about things that mattered and they knew how loved and respected they each were by the other, that she felt really grateful to have that. She had no idea how I had felt about my actions surrounding my dad’s death. I am, of course, heartbroken at what she’s going through, but I do, finally, feel a little bit of peace in what she told me, that maybe it’s okay now, maybe the universe has forgiven me a little or that I can forgive myself, because one of the effects of my dad’s death was to bring her and her dad a little closer together.
Rest in peace, Al. Say hi to my dad.
Growing up, I was doted on by my family. I was the youngest (surprise) child ten years after my next-oldest sibling. I was the youngest grandchild, the youngest niece. Plus, I was pretty frickin cute and generally easy-going. (Seriously. Ask my mom, she’ll tell you.) When most people find out I’m the baby of the family, they get the wary, oh-my-god-you-must-be-entitled/spoiled look in their eyes. I will admit I was indulged. Yes, I was a little sheltered. I was taken care of and had some things done for me that a child in a different birth order would have been expected to do themselves. But I was not spoiled materially. I did not make demands and my family did not do my bidding. (Obviously, being called spoiled is a trigger. Hi! Welcome to my issues place.) Once I left home for college, each time I came home for a break was cause for celebration. My mom would have all my favorite meals planned and snacks in the pantry, my preferred toiletries, some flowers in my room, various family get-togethers arranged, etc. (She did this for my brother and sister as well, so it wasn’t just the spoiled baby getting this treatment. Srsly.)
Five years ago, things changed. My father passed away. The visit I made a year later, a cousin’s husband, who had been sick for decades, died and my mom, gramma and I made the trip to another island for the funeral. This visit, my uncle is very ill. So, three out of three visits have involved at least one, if not all, of the following: dying/death/a funeral. Yesterday I had a minor breakdown, depressed as hell about all my time spent at home being so sad. My mom and gramma have been staying at my uncle’s (2+ hours from my hometown) to help my aunt and generally be there just in case, and I was torn between wanting to be there for them and not wanting to stay there the entire week I was home (in the country, with no cell or internet); not wanting them to come back home to spend time with me when they would rather be with my uncle to spend his last days with him. I fully admit my selfishness here, and I’m not proud of it. I do want to say goodbye to my uncle, but he does have four daughters, four step-daughters, bunches of grandkids, a wife, mother, siblings who…I don’t know…should take priority? And yes, I fully admit that the idea of going home and sitting by another dying loved one’s bedside…well, it makes me feel sick. Which makes me feel like an ashshole. I mean, who wants to do that? No one. So I should just suck it up and be there for my mom and gramma. I did consider postponing my trip, broaching the idea with my mom that if they preferred spending their time in the country with my uncle and not feeling like they needed to entertain me, etc, but she asked me not to, so I’m still going. (And the re-booking fees would have almost doubled my original ticket price, so anyway.)
I don’t know what to expect and out of everything else, that is probably the most stressful part right now for this Virgo. I guess I just need to accept that as all of my relatives there are only getting older that this is going to be the reality going forward – that I am no longer the indulged baby of the family but now have to be a caregiver. Which, honestly, may just be the worst part of getting older.
