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Jun. 14th, 2004 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lillibetMy father is dying. Not actively, not today (mostly likely), possibly not for another few years, but as an 82 year old man with heart problems, his long-term is not very long, most likely. We were with him this weekend (tomorrow is actually his birthday) and he had an angina attack on Saturday night. It was the first he's had in several months and he took his nitro and was fine, but tired, in pretty short order. We went to hear him preach this morning and afterwards he was very, very tired. He told my mother that after he fulfills his commitment to preach at Beckie's church in two weeks, he will not accept any more invitations to do so. He told Mom "It can say in my obituary that I preached for the last time shortly after my 82nd birthday, at my daughter's church...I think that will sound alright." That scares me, because he loves preaching more than anything and I can't help but feeling that letting that go is a sign that he is letting go and will not be with us much longer.
My father was already old when I was born--he was 47. I don't remember him with anything but grey hair. But he was six-foot-four and strong and loving and it hurts to see him in pain. Last night, during his attack, when he couldn't really breathe, he was sitting on the stairs looking up at me with the look of patient, frightened suffering--like a dog, or a very sick child. It was all I could do not to cry right there and then.
Now I weep for my mother, most of all. She has taken care of him and loved him and put up with him and treasured him for the last 54 years. And she is slowly watching him become less and less able, living with the fear that any moment could be his last, or this could go on for a good while yet. I imagine Jason looking at me, 50 years from now, with that same look of mute pain, and my heart breaks. She is so strong and cheerful, but I know that she worries. I know the look in her face, that says that she would do anything she could to make it better and the hardest thing is that there is nothing she can do.
It's okay that Daddy will die. We all die and I've had more years with him than I really expected. He's still in his right mind and despite fairly major health crises every decade or so, in between he's been quite healthy and is still able to walk and get up a few stairs and mostly take care of himself. He's lived a good life, been a good husband, a good father, a good person. We had our disagreements and conflicts and misunderstandings, but those are all explained, or forgiven, or forgotten. We have long since said all that needs to be said. We know that we love each other and are proud of each other and that talking to each other has been one of the great joys of both of our lives. We've been very lucky. I know that when he goes, he won't be leaving me. He is in my heart, he is one of the voices in my head, and I will carry him with me wherever I go.
On the other hand, whenever he goes, I will miss him every day for the rest of my life and it will always be too soon.
My father was already old when I was born--he was 47. I don't remember him with anything but grey hair. But he was six-foot-four and strong and loving and it hurts to see him in pain. Last night, during his attack, when he couldn't really breathe, he was sitting on the stairs looking up at me with the look of patient, frightened suffering--like a dog, or a very sick child. It was all I could do not to cry right there and then.
Now I weep for my mother, most of all. She has taken care of him and loved him and put up with him and treasured him for the last 54 years. And she is slowly watching him become less and less able, living with the fear that any moment could be his last, or this could go on for a good while yet. I imagine Jason looking at me, 50 years from now, with that same look of mute pain, and my heart breaks. She is so strong and cheerful, but I know that she worries. I know the look in her face, that says that she would do anything she could to make it better and the hardest thing is that there is nothing she can do.
It's okay that Daddy will die. We all die and I've had more years with him than I really expected. He's still in his right mind and despite fairly major health crises every decade or so, in between he's been quite healthy and is still able to walk and get up a few stairs and mostly take care of himself. He's lived a good life, been a good husband, a good father, a good person. We had our disagreements and conflicts and misunderstandings, but those are all explained, or forgiven, or forgotten. We have long since said all that needs to be said. We know that we love each other and are proud of each other and that talking to each other has been one of the great joys of both of our lives. We've been very lucky. I know that when he goes, he won't be leaving me. He is in my heart, he is one of the voices in my head, and I will carry him with me wherever I go.
On the other hand, whenever he goes, I will miss him every day for the rest of my life and it will always be too soon.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-14 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-14 11:54 am (UTC)Nothing I can add to that, except the desire to show solidarity.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-16 04:08 am (UTC)