I just could not get here yesterday with all that has been swirling in the water around me and I had quite a few moments unloading pallets of pottery, watering the perennials and vegetables, and helping others find just the right plants for their gardens. I thought of my father and his youngest daughter on 8/3/96.
It does seem that all I have written about here relates to death and yet, that is life as well. Some deaths mark our lives in a way that will never return us to that place in our lives where we remained unmarked. Everything shifts and we know it deeply and it is good thing we were paying attention.
On 8/3/96 I had already spent about 10 days at my father's hospital bedside watching him gesture to images that floated above his head. People he knew? Ghosts? He could not talk nor swallow from a stroke that left him changed forever. First my sister and I began our long stretch as his sentries. Then she had to fly home to Texas to check on her life and I remained, vigilant and straining to hear the telltale signs of death that was creeping towards us.
I have no idea what the nurses, aides and doctors thought that tiny woman with a journal was doing yet I think they had seen it so many times before. They were wonderful and kind and patient and wise in a way that both of us needed. They allowed my father to pick his time and they carried a stillness with them that honored the process of death. Remarkable really.
I was restless and afraid that day on 8/3/96, pacing and getting up and down from my chair as I watched my father's breathing become more and more labored, gasping for air and fighting with life in the moment. He would not let go. For some reason, I finally got up from that chair at about 12:45 PM and walked over and peered down into Dad's eyes.
I started to cry and I let him know that my sister's were on their way from Texas, that they loved him and knew that he loved them. I told my father that I loved him, knew he knew what was happening, that I would miss him and that he could go. Right then, tears ebbed and fell from his eyes as he and I cried. He looked up, beyond me and he was gone. It was almost as if he blew past my head up into the corner, the energy and force of Frank leaving that room was powerful.
For me, that feeling of telling my Dad that it was OK to leave us and then feel him leave has marked my own beliefs of our timing, why we stay here on earth, why we let go and still wondering why I am here. I miss my Dad and his many slogans, eccentricities, generosity and I don't miss all those scary places that were present in the years he lived with my mother. Those were hard times.
I miss you Dad, thank you for the values, ethics, honesty and wisdom that you left with me. Peace be with you.
