Daddy

My father writhes on the hospital bed. He’s finally loosed from all the tubes, except for the catheter, that have bedeviled him for weeks. He kicks and twists and claws the air. He moans unintelligible things. His actions become feebler but his strong body carries on for a long time before he finally goes.

So the question that haunts me: when all hope is gone, why does the body carry on?

I am sure that when it is my own time to die, I will refuse to go into the light until the powers answer that most important question. I am sure that there must be a little heaven in the answer because to the stricken families of the dying it seems to be something from hell.

My dad’s personal trip to the next life was different from my grandmother’s. She lay calmly in her hospital bed, grabbing for every breath, waiting for her kidneys to stop working. My grandfather, mother and I waited for hours throughout the long night, sharing stories of her life and lives of those past, our voices catching as we listened for her next breath. I finally left in the wee small hours, needing sleep the young are able to wrest from tragedy. My mom and grandfather hung on till her last breath near dawn.

My father’s exit was a slow decline. His family thought he’d achieve a plateau. We’d gather around him either singly or in groups looking for a vital spark of his personality. Then he’d slip down into another valley or nearly slip away and teeter near the brink. He’d never quite leave and never regain the lost ground. We’d then regroup around his bed, hoping for a little progress.

His death was a little easier for me because his wonderful, warm, fun-loving personality had been going for a while. Some of my siblings would argue that loss with me. One sister could manufacture a glimmer of life when it didn’t really exist and another had been too busy to visit for the last several years so she could remain in denial of his Alzheimer’s progress. The third sister refuses to go to hospitals so she doesn’t have to see anybody that’s sick. These are all wonderful coping mechanisms. I prefer to meet adversity head on and grasp for my own sanity when reality hits me in the face.

It is not death that so consumes me now, it is the process to arrive there.

So angels or aliens or that great candle snuffer in the sky, be ready for when it’s my time, I will want to know why, if it’s something we all have to do, why is dying so hard!