Memorial Day weekend is often a bit somber for me - on the one hand it is a day of remembering those who gave their lives in service to our country; yet on the other it is a much more personal day of remembrance as this was the weekend that my father passed away. And it seems that no matter the amount of time that has passed so far, this is a time where I tend to get a bit foggy as I remember the good, the not-so-good, the funny, the serious ... all the time I did have with him. But for some reason the memories that loom the largest and clearest are those of his last weekend.
We were living a nearly 8-hour drive away; and with a two-year old, making the trip to visit was not easy ... so our visits became few and far between. We'd plan for visits during long weekends (like Memorial Day weekend). And so in 1997 we did just that. Because the cancer had come back - this time with a vengeance - Dad and Mom weren't able to visit us for their grandson's 2nd birthday. Dad just couldn't make that kind of trip anymore; and Mom had to take care of him. Yet they so desperately wanted to see the grandchild ... so we agreed that we'd make the trip during Memorial Day to have another birthday celebration.
I know that Dad was looking forward to the visit - probably more than I'd ever know, quite frankly. I later found out that he had been hospitalized only a few days before but signed himself out so that he could be home to welcome his grandson.
As we arrived at their house after a tediously long drive (having a two-year old strapped in a car seat is not a lot of fun!), I tried to explain as best as the kid could understand that grandpa might look differently from the last time we saw him. (The chemo was doing its best to destroy his health as well as destroying the cancer)
There he was - Dad was sitting in "his chair" wrapped in his bathrobe and a blanket, wearing a cap as he had since lost all of his hair. He could only talk in a whisper; and he was no longer able to eat nor drink but for a tube that had been placed directly into his stomach.
The kid took everything in stride to be sure. He was his usual rambunctious self - playing with toys on the floor right there in front of grandpa - and Dad just seemed to glow with joy at watching the little rascal.
Then the night took a turn for the worse.
At some point in the early morning hours, my mother woke me up to ask for help. Dad was having problems and she needed to pack a small suitcase because she was sure he'd have to go to the hospital. The ambulance was called. Mom insisted that she be with Dad in the back of the ambulance, so I drove another car to meet them in the emergency room. I got a bit lost getting there ... the dark roads were unfamiliar to me - and there's not much help available at 3am. But I did manage to get to the emergency room only 20 minutes after Mom and Dad arrived.
Checked into a room, the oncologist on call came and gave Dad the once-over. The last time I saw him alive was that night in the hospital bed ... Mom and I standing at the foot of the bed with my arm wrapped around her - both of us looking at him and telling him that, "It'll be okay," and that we'll stop by to see him the next morning.
That next morning we received a phone call from the doctor on call that Dad has passed at some point during the night. Taking Mom to the hospital that morning included quite a flood of tears from both of us - my having to pull over a few times because the crying was rather intense.
A priest greeted us when we arrived at the hospital - expressing his sorrow for our loss and assuring that Dad had received the last rites. "His sins are forgiven," were his words to us.
Seeing him lying there cold, eyes still open -
I did not think then, nor do still think now, that he had passed
peacefully. It wasn't a scene of peace ... I don't know if Dad struggled
to stay alive during those last moments or if he was angry or if he
eventually accepted and resigned himself to the inevitable ... it just
struck me as I saw him there that it wasn't a gentle passing.
There next to him were small pieces of paper and a pencil - since he wasn't able to talk well at all he wrote down his conversations ... and it was clear that this was part of his conversation with the oncologist that evening after Mom and I had left him. "The days of ice cream and milkshakes will be back" ...
So there you have it - my particular memories of a Memorial Day weekend in 1997.
We were living a nearly 8-hour drive away; and with a two-year old, making the trip to visit was not easy ... so our visits became few and far between. We'd plan for visits during long weekends (like Memorial Day weekend). And so in 1997 we did just that. Because the cancer had come back - this time with a vengeance - Dad and Mom weren't able to visit us for their grandson's 2nd birthday. Dad just couldn't make that kind of trip anymore; and Mom had to take care of him. Yet they so desperately wanted to see the grandchild ... so we agreed that we'd make the trip during Memorial Day to have another birthday celebration.
I know that Dad was looking forward to the visit - probably more than I'd ever know, quite frankly. I later found out that he had been hospitalized only a few days before but signed himself out so that he could be home to welcome his grandson.
As we arrived at their house after a tediously long drive (having a two-year old strapped in a car seat is not a lot of fun!), I tried to explain as best as the kid could understand that grandpa might look differently from the last time we saw him. (The chemo was doing its best to destroy his health as well as destroying the cancer)
There he was - Dad was sitting in "his chair" wrapped in his bathrobe and a blanket, wearing a cap as he had since lost all of his hair. He could only talk in a whisper; and he was no longer able to eat nor drink but for a tube that had been placed directly into his stomach.
The kid took everything in stride to be sure. He was his usual rambunctious self - playing with toys on the floor right there in front of grandpa - and Dad just seemed to glow with joy at watching the little rascal.
Then the night took a turn for the worse.
At some point in the early morning hours, my mother woke me up to ask for help. Dad was having problems and she needed to pack a small suitcase because she was sure he'd have to go to the hospital. The ambulance was called. Mom insisted that she be with Dad in the back of the ambulance, so I drove another car to meet them in the emergency room. I got a bit lost getting there ... the dark roads were unfamiliar to me - and there's not much help available at 3am. But I did manage to get to the emergency room only 20 minutes after Mom and Dad arrived.
Checked into a room, the oncologist on call came and gave Dad the once-over. The last time I saw him alive was that night in the hospital bed ... Mom and I standing at the foot of the bed with my arm wrapped around her - both of us looking at him and telling him that, "It'll be okay," and that we'll stop by to see him the next morning.
That next morning we received a phone call from the doctor on call that Dad has passed at some point during the night. Taking Mom to the hospital that morning included quite a flood of tears from both of us - my having to pull over a few times because the crying was rather intense.
A priest greeted us when we arrived at the hospital - expressing his sorrow for our loss and assuring that Dad had received the last rites. "His sins are forgiven," were his words to us.
Seeing him lying there cold, eyes still open -
I did not think then, nor do still think now, that he had passed
peacefully. It wasn't a scene of peace ... I don't know if Dad struggled
to stay alive during those last moments or if he was angry or if he
eventually accepted and resigned himself to the inevitable ... it just
struck me as I saw him there that it wasn't a gentle passing.
There next to him were small pieces of paper and a pencil - since he wasn't able to talk well at all he wrote down his conversations ... and it was clear that this was part of his conversation with the oncologist that evening after Mom and I had left him. "The days of ice cream and milkshakes will be back" ...
So there you have it - my particular memories of a Memorial Day weekend in 1997.
