My Dad is Dying

I fall asleep thinking about it. I wake up thinking about it. And some nights, like yesterday, I toss and turn at 1am and burst into tears saying, "We were going to throw them a 50th wedding anniversary party!"

I have so many thoughts in my mind. Dad hasn't seen our house. He hasn't seen our yard. He hasn't seen our business. I think about things like the dynamics should we have more children.

My mom and I have something in common--we've both got Dads with Parkinson's Disease (my sweet Vavo died when I was 18). Of course it's not some kind of sick contest, but my Mom's Dad got to see her have grandchildren. I feel so young for this. I don't like the phrase "It's not fair" because it's so whiny, but I have to admit that it doesn't seem fair.

I miss my Dad. I want to get up there and hug him. I want to hold his hand. I want to tell him I love him. All of those things are no different than what I usually do with him. We've always been affectionate. I am REALLY wanting to get up there and do it again. I'm yearning for that.

I want to tell my Dad things and hear what he wants to tell me. I want to tell my Dad things I've been thinking about, things he's taught me.

He's taught me that a kind answer turns away wrath.
He's taught me to have a sense of humor.
He's taught me to give to others without hesitation.
He's always pulled over to help someone on the side of road as if by instinct. No hesitation.
My Dad has taught me to play soccer. Volleyball. Tennis.
My Dad has taught me to ride my bike.
He's taught me to swim.
He's taught me to fish.
He's taught me that if the boys try to hit me on the playground to punch them as hard as I can.

My Dad has always been strong, athletic, active, giving, generous. How it is that Parkinson's Disease can have him laying there a shell of who he's always been is beyond me and it's cruel. It's a thief and it's horrible. He's completely dependent on everyone around him, something he's not ever been before, something he's not ever wanted to be. He's always had dignity. Almost to a fault. And yet he sits and waits to be fed, changed, and washed. How can that be? He deserves to be treated with dignity.

I miss him. So much. I've always been a Daddy's girl and I want my Daddy. I want to hear him call me "Bibi" and feel his hand on mine. I want his kisses on my cheek. I've got to tell him all the things I'm thinking and feeling. Hopefully without crying and without it sounding like a "goodbye" speech. I hate that the next time I see him it's basically to say "Goodbye." How can I walk away after that? How can I "return to normal?" How can I move forward with all we're doing? When things seem to be changing so much. Even though we've all known it's coming, it seems to have snuck up on us just the same. And it's cruel.

My Dad longs to feel worthy, forgiven of anything he's ever done. He's not ever felt good enough at anything. I want him to see himself the way I see him. As strong despite his disease. As kind despite his faults. As dignified despite his condition. As good. As kind. As guileless.

Guileless. It's the word that keeps coming to mind to describe my Dad. Generous and Guileless. My Dad is truly a man without guile--it's not that he doesn't let things about people irritate him . . . he doesn't even notice those things in the first place. He's simply that kind of a great guy. So, it's hard.

And it's hard on my Mom. I ache for her. As an adult especially, I think of what she's going through and how much it affects her. I think of being with her after my Dad dies and consoling her all I can. She's so young to be widowed. I haven't ever pictured her alone. I haven't ever pictured either of them alone. It's not right. Again, it's not fair. How can she amble about the house alone? He's become her whole life. He's become her every day. She hardly has a moment to herself as she serves him, cares for him. How, after 48 years, can she go from that to having all her moments to herself? And how do we all go on knowing he's not there? When we call and talk to my Mom, we know he's there, even if we don't talk to him. And when we do talk to him, it's always good to hear his voice. And he's always calling out his two cents when we're on the phone anyway, even if his two cents have nothing to do with what we're talking about.

It's hard to feel conflicted, simultaneously wanting relief for him yet selfishly wanting him well for us. It's a cruelty of mortality.

And trying to explain this to our kids is so difficult. How do you explain that Vavo might not recognize them? Especially when their common sense, faith-filled answer is, "I know! When he asks who we are, we tell him and then he'll know!" How do you explain that Vavo's not getting better? That it's not a cold? How do you explain that he's dying and that people are really sad about it? How do we explain the tears my Mom will shed? That we'll all shed? Is it confusing for them? Is it scary? How to best handle it?

When my Dad had his extremely scary heart attack 5 years ago and was being kept alive by a mechanical pump, I wrote the following:

My Daddy

When I was a baby, my Daddy gave me a bath every night.

On my first day of school, my Daddy told me that if anyone hit me, “hit ‘em back!”

When I went to the spelling bee, my Daddy sat in the crowd and rooted for me.

When I played soccer in grade school, my Daddy practiced outside with me in our yard.

When I would ask him when he was going to join the church so we could get sealed as a family, my Daddy would say, “Someday, honey.” And I knew he meant it.

When I ask my Daddy for $5, he gives me $20. When I ask for $15, he gives me $50.

My Daddy always made sure I had plenty for field trips.

My Daddy always lets me keep the change.

My Daddy always took me to McDonald’s whenever I wanted it, even if I only ate “bites.”

My Daddy always gave me the good meaty parts of his fish at dinner so I wouldn’t have to pick out the bones.

My Daddy always tries to fatten me up so I can be “healthy.”

My Daddy taught me how to fish, swim, and bike and wasn’t ever too busy to do any of those things with me.

My Daddy teaches me by example that it’s important to always serve and help people.

When I started noticing specific boys, my Daddy pointed out to me all of the reasons why they weren’t good enough for his little girl.

When we’re driving, my Daddy always puts his hand in front of me to keep me safe.

When two boys in the stake “kidnapped” Kora and me, my Daddy went to the store to get the ransom—root beer floats!

When I dated my first real boyfriend, my Daddy pretty much approved.

When my Daddy would sit up on the stand, he’d wink at me and make me smile!

When my Daddy got baptized, he looked so very handsome in his white suit.

When we got sealed as a family in the D.C. temple, my Daddy was glowing!

When my Daddy called me at college, he always said, “I love you, Bibi.”

When I brought my husband-to-be home from college, my Daddy approved.

When I left on a mission, my Daddy was the bishop who sent me off.

When I was on my mission, I got great letters from my Daddy.

When I got home and quickly got engaged, my Daddy approved again.

When Mark and I got sealed in the temple, my Daddy sat in the bride’s father’s seat and that means so much to me.

When we moved to Arizona and bought a mobile home, my Daddy came, checked it out, gave it his stamp of approval, and complimented us on a great money deal.

My Daddy gets us good tools and works with Mark on projects.

My Daddy encourages me to do well in school and has confidence in me.

When Kate was born, my Daddy called to ask about us all.

When Kate was blessed, my Daddy came out to be in the circle.

My Daddy is a great Vavô who calls to talk to Kate. He always says, “I love you. I love the baby.”

My Daddy takes Kate on walks.

My Daddy gives us gardening tips.

My Daddy is proud of me.

My Daddy worries about me.

My Daddy cares about me.

My Daddy calls and listens to how things are going.

I’m 28 years old and my Daddy calls me “Bibi” and I love it!

All this and more, you do for me, you teach me. Thank you! I love you, Daddy!

My Dad is so proud of his granddaughters and grandson. He loves us all so much.

So many thoughts. So many reminders. His big, old orange truck. I used to play in the back. I used to go on oh-so-many landlord and building errands with him. My Dad building our basement. Home Improvement stuff. Getting tools with Mark. Getting us stuff at Lowe's. Checkers. My Dad loves checkers. The smell of sawdust reminds me of my carpenter Dad. My Dad doesn't have any fancy degrees and it soooo doesn't matter. It hasn't ever mattered. My Dad has always seemed more of a wise man than most college-educated men I know. And hard working. And smart. He's always known what to do. The smell of raw fish--my Dad the fisherman, cleaning out fish in our yard. Fertilizer, the real kind. Fresh cut grass. My Dad, the gardener working on his beautiful garden. Gorgeous. People would visit us just to see it. My Dad, the father. The brother. The husband. The grandfather. My Daddy.

I want to get up there and tell him all these things while I hold his hand. I want to enjoy his moments of lucidity and awakeness though those are fewer and farther between. I want to tell him yet again, even though I know he knows, that I love him. I want to hold my Mom while she grieves and cries even though it will hurt. How can it be that after he dies, when we visit, we'll be visiting my widowed mother living by herself? How can it be that we'll visit my Dad at his grave? (I'm so putting tennis balls there instead of flowers.)

I want to be with my Dad so much, but it will be so difficult to walk away. I don't know how my legs will have the strength. I'm so scared of walking away.