by CeeCee James
But, he didn’t seek me out any more, and when I called to see if he could go fishing he was always too busy. If I wanted to see him then it was up to me to make it happen. And I tried, I hunted him down and went to wherever he was, trying to rekindle our relationship.
He didn’t reciprocate.
He had assembled his own tribe, made up of college kids who lived next door and guys from the bar. They lived the same lifestyle. They were the ones who made him feel safe and valued.
It hurt, but at the same time made me angry that he couldn’t receive that from me.
One night I called him, after I’d found out he’d driven past my house to go target practicing with his new tribe.
“Dad, how come you’ll go shooting with the kids next door, but don’t have time to go hunting with me?”
“Jim, those boys, they’re my sons.”
The air around me went cold. “Whatever, Dad.” I snarled the last word, and hung up. Red haze pushed down the lump in my throat. I grabbed a cup off of the counter and flung it against the wall where it shattered into pieces.
Chapter 22
A few more years went by. We had four children now, and I loved them more than I knew I was capable of loving. They were amazing.
I took them fishing with me down at the lake. My three year old daughter caught her first fish, and I’d hardly gotten hers off the hook when one of my sons hauled one up. Then my other daughter . I was running back and forth so much taking care of their lines that I didn’t have time to throw my line in. It was a great day, even though the baby did get into the fishing bait.
But, the responsibility of sports, bills, family, and my job wore on me. I still didn’t drink, but, I didn’t know where else to turn for relief. My brothers had their own lives, and we all scattered to different corners of the state. I checked up on them as best as I could by phone, and we made an effort to get together once or twice a year over at Mom’s house. They had great families, and I was proud of them.
Mom and I still had a tense relationship. She did her best as a mother, but now she never seemed happy with who I was as her son, nor how I was as a father to my kids. But, I loved her a lot despite the difficult times.
Dad and I had a tentative truce, although we still didn’t talk all that much. I’d pretty much given up on having a relationship with him.
CeeCee was the love of my life and my best friend. Still, as anyone can tell you, marriage is a lot of work. But we worked hard at it, and I was a happy man.
And then life throws you a curve ball.
The phone rang.
It was Dad on the other end. It had been months since I’d last talked to him, and the first time he’d called me in years.
“Hey, Dad!” Even after all we’d been through, I felt excited to hear his voice.
“Hey, Son.”
Instantly my blood went cold. I could hear it in just those two words. Don’t say anything more. I don’t want to know.
“I need you three boys to come to my place this weekend.” He coughed. “I’ve got something I have to tell you.”
My brain screamed, “Tell him you’re busy!”
“Wh…what Dad.”
There was a heavy silence. I heard Dad take a deep breath, and it gave way to a hitching sigh. He took another, and then another, while I waited, holding the phone so tight it shook against my head.
“It’s not good. The Doc says your Old Man’s got pancreatic cancer.”
The words were like a gut punch. The air ripped out of me as I grabbed on to the wall for support. I couldn’t think of how to respond to him. Every thought was a rush of cuss words and shock.
“Uh, okay. Okay Dad. I’ll be there on Saturday.” Somehow I got through the rest of the conversation and hung up the phone. I sank to the couch with my head in my hands.
CeeCee came from the kitchen where she’d been folding laundry.
“Are you okay, hon?” She laid her hand on my shoulder.
I ripped my hands through my hair and stood up.
“NO! I’m sure as Hell not okay!” I wanted to throw something. I grabbed a pillow off the couch and threw it back for being so stupid and soft. I wanted to destroy something. Tear it into a million pieces, like how I felt inside.
I stormed outside to the garage, flung open the door and stood for a moment in the dark gloom. My heart pounded. I grabbed the edge of the work bench to steady myself, then squeezed it as hard as I could. Dad’s sick. I felt like was fourteen again, realizing I was going to be left alone without a Dad.
A sudden stab of agony ripped through me and I clung to the bench for support. It was the death of a hope I’d carried since I was a boy, that one day he’d quit drinking, one day he’d want to be around me.
It was never going to happen.
I grabbed the chainsaw off the bench and threw it. Now I was forced to make amends with a man who didn’t give a hoot about me or my family.
I rubbed my face in my hands and struggled to push the emotions down. Don’t feel, don’t care about this man who doesn’t care about me. He only wants me now for God knows why, to drag me through the same crappy feelings that he was feeling.
Angry tears filled my eyes. “Dammit,” I muttered, and wiped them with the back of my arm. The wetness infuriated me even more, and I punched the workbench. I hadn’t cried since the birth of my daughter.
The front door slammed, and there was a crunch of footsteps on the gravel coming up the path outside. A second later, CeeCee stood silhouetted in the doorframe watching me.
I looked up at her with my eyes burning.
“We’ll get through this,” she said softly.
I grabbed my splitting maul. “He made his bed, let him lie in it,” I said, as I pushed passed her to the wood pile.
*****
The next day I came home from work convinced that I was going to skip the visit up to Dad’s place on Saturday. CeeCee had dinner for the kids already on the table. After I came out of the shower, she said, “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
We went to the local diner, just one step above a truck stop in niceties. I slid across from her in the vinyl bench of the booth. Her eyes wrinkled with worry, and I could tell she had something to say.
The waitress came to our table and took our orders. After she walked away, CeeCee started to fiddle with the sugar packets.
“What? Spit it out,” I said.
She took my hand and looked me in the eye.
“Babe, I know this sucks. I know you are feeling a storm inside. But you have to listen to me. The time will come for you to be able to deal with all you feel. But right now you have to go to your dad.”
I yanked my hand away. “I’m sick of it! He did this to himself! How many times did we tell him to quit drinking?”
“I know, hon.”
“Remember two years ago when he almost died, because he had withdrawals so bad?”
“He was trying to quit.”
“Cold turkey! He almost killed himself! Only to start right back up again.”
“I know honey, I know.”
“He couldn’t put that damn bottle down, and now he’s sick and dying.” I grabbed the butter knife and dug its edge into the table. “I’m so mad at him. What does he want from me? Sympathy? After all the years of abuse, anger, punching things, and scaring us? Cutting me off and making me feel like crap because I didn’t drink with him?” My eyes started to blur. “Now he calls to tell me he’s dying, and for what? So I feel sorry for him? He deserves this! He stole from me, made me fatherless.” I grabbed her hand again, and she looked scared. “I have a son. I know what it’s like to bond with your son. I got ripped off. I don’t ever want to speak to him again.” My words choked off. I couldn’t speak over the lump in my throat.
My wife stroked the back of my hand. “I know baby, I know sweetheart.” She picked up my hand to kiss it. “I’m so sorry.”
The waitress set down a burger in front of me. It was as appetizing as a pile of di
rt. I couldn’t eat it. “Just pack it up to go,” I said.
*****
That Saturday I did go up there. Willie, David, and I sat crowded together on his couch in his crappy living room in a run-down trailer park he’d found himself in. We were silent as we listened to his diagnosis. There wasn’t a lot to say. But seeing him, so vulnerable and afraid, curled up in his old easy chair made it easy to squash down all the anger and try to be there for him.
I went every weekend after that for over a year. Dad couldn’t drink through the vomiting from the cancer treatments. His once muscular frame whittled down to almost nothing through the months, and that broke my heart. But, it was the first time since I was a boy that I looked into his clear eyes.
We didn’t have any deep heart to heart talks. No matter how he looked on the outside, he was still a tough old bird at his core. We talked about sports, hunting, and his drinking buddies’ latest adventures. He joked about how he’d played the “C” card when the collection agencies called to make them feel bad. He tried to stay active, even canning his famous pickles. He gave me a few jars, and I ignored the mold that grew in them because he was going blind.
We had one important conversation. It was about six months after his diagnosis, and I’d called Dad to check on him. We small-talked like usual, but burning in my heart throughout the conversation was something I wanted to say, needed to say. Something I’d been avoiding.
I cleared my throat. “Dad, I just want you to know that I love you.” There was absolute silence on the other end. Men did not talk about love to one another. There was more I wanted to say. I took a deep breath, and the words came in a rush. “I want you to know that I don’t blame you anymore. I know you did the best you could when I was growing up. I know that your marriage wasn’t easy. I know you had an addiction. But you’re a good man, you always have been. I love you, Dad.”
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. Dad said, “Yeah, well it is what it is.” He changed the subject to his garden and how proud he was of his carrot crop. My guts squeezed inside. I felt the blockage of his shame. It was like I was speaking a foreign language, and he couldn’t understand me.
CeeCee walked in as I hung up the phone.
“He didn’t get it,” I said, feeling a different grief rip through me.
She put her arms around my shoulders and gave me a soft hug. “I love you.”
I realized then she loved me despite my weaknesses, loved me truly for me. And for some reason, I understood in that instant that what made me different from my dad wasn’t quitting alcohol, it was facing my emotions and not hiding from them behind anger.
“I had this picture while you were talking to your dad,” she continued, speaking quietly in my ear. “It was of your dad and Jesus up in heaven. Jesus turned to him and said, ‘Remember when your son told you that he loved you?’ Then Jesus explained to him what you meant. It’s going to work out. He’ll understand one day. I’m proud of you, babe.”
I knew anything was possible, but I had my doubts.
*****
It was on a Tuesday when I got the phone call saying we needed to go to the hospital. Dad was having a procedure to help drain some fluid off of his lungs, and time was short. I was numb with fear, I knew the day was quickly coming when I’d have to say goodbye. I’d seen the events play out in my nightmares.
Going home after work to get my wife and kids, and then leaving for the hospital was the longest drive of my life. But, I wanted to take my time, go as slow as possible, because I was afraid of the outcome.
We pulled into the parking garage. My wife and kids all climbed out of the mini-van and we headed for the entrance. Trying to corral our four kids through the hospital hallways and into the elevator already wore me out.
When we walked into the room, Dad was lying back in bed. He sluggishly lifted his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. “H..hey.” His words were garbled.
My stomach clenched. There was an obvious degrading in his health since last week.
He rolled his head across the pillow to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry,” It came out a whisper. I rapidly moved over to him and leaned down.
He exhaled; it hissed out like a punctured tire. “I really want to stick around, but I can’t. I’m going to have to go.” He could barely get the words out. Fear and sadness flooded his eyes.
I rested my forehead against his shoulder, determined to be strong for him. “I’m here, Dad. I’m not leaving.”
My kids rallied on all sides of the hospital bed, my youngest son barely tall enough to peep over the blankets. Dad slowly turned his head, and then when that became too much of an effort, moved his eyes to look at them all. They were a little wide-eyed at all the beeps, medical tubes, and wires attached to Grandpa, but they settled into comfortableness pretty darn quick. My baby daughter found a black comb on the side table and started to comb his thin hair. Her sweetness made me smile because she didn’t know him very well. He’d lost those opportunities, gone forever now.
He closed his eyes, maybe enjoying the feel of the comb being pulled softly through his hair.
“Dad,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and grabbed me with his intense look. I swallowed, then pulled my ipod from my pocket. I unwound the ear buds and carefully put one in his ear. Climbing down on my knees, I leaned next to him and put the other ear bud in my ear. Then I pushed play.
It was a song by Mercy Me, “Word of God Speak.” A faint grin crept across his face.
When it was over he whispered, “Play it again, Son.” So I did.
He was so skimpy and thin, with no meat on his bones, but his hand had swelled to almost normal size. There was gauze on his arms, and the skin was weeping. It broke my heart. Softly, I cupped my hand around his. It had been a long time since I’d held my dad’s hand. The memory hit, almost overwhelming me, of holding his hand as a little boy. We were in the river, and I was scared to cross because the rocks were so big. Dad had looked at me and said, “I think we can make it, Son. Here, take my hand.” His hand had been so big and strong, rough from all the hours of working outside. I felt safe. When I slipped on the rocks his strength held me up.
Now I held his to comfort him until he was across the other side. I wasn’t going to let go until he went from life into death into life again. I wanted to make him feel safe, but there was nothing I could do to help him.
His other hand crept across the blanket, until it bumped into my wife’s. He tried to move her hand, but was too weak, so she lifted his. He set her hand tenderly on mine, then rested his on the top of both.
“Good.” His word was breathless. I knew what he was saying. He was saying stay together, no matter what, work it out. I held back my tears.
He began to breath shallower and shallower. I started holding my breath too, trying to control the scream that was growing inside of me.
Breath
Ten seconds later.
Breath
Twenty seconds.
Breath
Thirty seconds.
I bent down close to his mouth to see if I could feel air come out or if his chest was moving. There was nothing, just a blank stare.
On the other side of the room, a voice said, “Someone get the nurse.”
Two nurses came in. One gently pulled me away and hugged me. The other nurse checked with her stethoscope, slowly going across his chest. After a minute, she straightened up, and looking at the floor, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. He has passed on.”
Then, the nurse stated the time of death.
Crushing pain tore through me. I yanked away from the hugging arms and slapped the wall behind me in fury. That’s it? I wanted something, anything. I’d heard the stories of death beds, I was waiting for some sign that he was okay.
He was gone, and I didn’t notice anything.
I turned from facing the wall to look at Dad again. He was staring at the corner of the room. Walking over, I tried to close his eye
s, but they wouldn’t stay shut.
Even that infuriated me.
Grabbing the handrail I breathed deeply and glanced at my family, still gathered around the bed. I didn’t know what to do next. I looked back at Dad.
I didn’t want to leave him.
Suddenly, Dad tipped his head up.
He got a really big smile on his face.
Every hair on my body stood, electrified.
The nurse sucked in her breath.
Dad’s eyes open wide like he saw someone he was thrilled to see just come into the room. Then his eyes narrowed as though staring into a bright light. He squinted real tight like he was trying to see what was behind the light.
Then, like an exhale, he relaxed. His head drooped down, and I knew then my dad was gone.
We were all stunned, I think. We backed away from the bed, and nurses scurried out.
The next day I called the nurse, because I’d heard people sometimes move after they die. She said, “What happened to your dad after he passed will impact me for the rest of my life.”
*****
I wish I could tell you things all wrapped up nicely with a bow. That, emotionally I felt healed because my dad smiled after he died, and all the parts of me that felt ripped off went away. It didn’t work like that.
Grieving sucks.
It’s hard and painful. It ebbs and flows. One minute I felt like I had a handle on it, the next I was filled with surreal shock; “My Dad’s gone!” as if it just happened that very second. “I’m never going to see him again!”
At least not in this life.
The funeral was horrible and good all mixed together. I hated that I was there. I was thankful for the support of our family and friends and appreciative of the stories shared.
He was a man who loved his family. Loved his boys, his brother, and his sisters, and was proud of them. He’d be the first there when there was a house flooding or pipes froze up.
But, addiction chained his life. It robbed him of what he could have been, and that’s why we were truly grieving. But even in that place, we could see who he really was, a man who had the best sense of humor, was strong, and would give a stranger the shirt off his back. We grieved over the chains, over the loss of unrealized relationships and potential.
