An Open Ended Letter to My Father

There were so many things I left unsaid, the day you left. I wanted to tell you I was afraid. I wanted to tell you that I needed you, that I really wasn’t prepared for this. But I didn’t. I was your strength when you were scared, I was relief for when it became too much. In retrospect, I gave so little of my time. I thought, foolishly, that we would have more time to visit and talk about innocuous, unimportant things. I thought, naively, that there was going to be a time where you were cancer free, somewhere in the future. Even as each medication made you weaker, and yet the cells grew stronger. Even as you stumbled, confused, against the wall. Even as I drove you to the emergency room, the last time you ever went back. Even as I said goodbye, leaving you sitting in the hospital room all alone to face one of the toughest decisions of your life.

I wasn’t there when I needed to be. I was tired, I wasn’t feeling well. But it’s all excuses, to me. Because the truth will always be that I was afraid. I wanted you to be okay, I wanted to go on that road trip I promised we would go on years ago. I wanted to publish my first novel, and I wanted you to read it. I hoped you would be there for my daughter to grow up, to see my sisters excel in their chosen fields in life. I put my faith in your optimism, in your bright disposition, even as you came back, thinner and thinner. Forced eating, forced activity. Laxatives, juices, chemotherapy. Choke a little bit down, spew a lot up. Constant nausea and vomiting, constant questions of why. Why did this happen? How could you have let this happen? Finding a pamphlet for preventative colon cancer screening, weeks after you took your last breath.

So much guilt, so much anger. There’s so much hatred built up, so much resentment, just swirling in the deep recesses of my heart. I remember, so vividly, the day you went in for what we thought was only a hernia. Simple enough, to me. But that was the last day that anything was simple. I remember calling mom, walking up to my house, asking how everything went. And then the pregnant pause, the telling omission. Something wasn’t quite right.

You didn’t want anyone to know. You were proud, still held so much anger and misplaced hatred. You had a chip on your shoulder a mile wide, and an attitude to match. Everybody else wasn’t worth it because they weren’t there. But, if we’re being honest, you weren’t there for them either. Decades of strife, of unbalanced fury at the world. All of it, worthless, as you came to terms with your disease, and reached out to those who you believed were against you. And one by one, they came. They made memories, memories that I will cherish for as long as I live.

I can’t say for certain when the reality hit me, that you really are gone and will never come back. I grieve, every day. A song will play, an old horror movie will pop up on my streaming service. Usually Godzilla, or the Blob. Every time I watch any of the old Scooby-Doo movies, any of the older shows, it brings back some bittersweet memories. You loved Scooby-Doo; it was comforting, in some of the darkest of your times. It was on constantly, as I held your hand, next to the hospital bed in the living room. As you reached out, unseeing, but needing reassurance that someone was there.

You died, August 11th, 2021, after nearly two years battling stage 4 colon cancer. The cancer ate away at your liver; the medication to treat the cancer ate away at your nerves, causing neuropathy in the hands and feet that slowly traveled up your limbs. A miserable, painful experience. But you stayed positive. You gave us hope, even as you feared, in silence, that this would be the end. Blissful naivety for us, hell for you.

Sometimes, people debate whether knowing that it’s the end is better or worse. To me, there are downsides to both. If someone passes quickly, there is not a lot of time to say goodbye, if any. There isn’t enough closure in the world when it’s unexpected. On the other hand, watching you deteriorate, turn into skin and bone, no muscle, just fluid retention in your midsection, is a hell of its own. Watching, firsthand, as your extreme independence was reduced to infantile, having to hear you whisper that you were sorry when I couldn’t lift you up off the ground, was torture. Wishing, towards the end, that you weren’t so stubborn and would just quit suffering needlessly, has left me with so much guilt. Going into work, day in and day out, knowing that I could get the call at any time to come to the house, put me in a constant state of high alert, ready to snap at any moment.

We assured you that we would be fine, and you told us that we were going to suffer more than you did. Because, in the end, you would die, and we would be left with the grief. I didn’t understand it then, couldn’t imagine how right you were. But, as I sit here, pondering our current events in life and wishing that I had you here to talk with, it dawns on me that you were right. This is so difficult, so much more painful than any pamphlet could ever prepare me for. I’m trying, so hard, to be the rock that everyone needs. I’m trying, so hard, to be positive, to talk about you constantly, to remind everybody of what you wanted, and of who you were, at the end. But it’s agonizing to see something and automatically want to tell you. I would give anything to hear you tell me that you’re proud of me again, to hear you say I love you, one more time. To hug you, as I did the day I came over after you found out. One of the rare times I’d seen you cry, and even then, I tried to be positive for all of us.

But strength does not just come from within. It comes from your support, your community and your family. It comes from your ability to reach out for help, to lean on another for as long as you need, or for as long as they can hold you. I’ve found it, within my family, friends and coworkers. And from my coworkers who are family.

I love you, dad, and I miss you every single day. There are days that I stand in the shower and sob. There are days that I stare blankly into space, imagining a time, a place, where this was not our reality. Where I could come to you for advice, where I could become the person I need to be, with you there cheering me on. But unfortunately, this isn’t a happy ending. This is life, and the only thing I can do is be the person you knew I could be. I’m not there yet, I’m still processing my new reality, and my new role. I’m making my decisions, some rash, some well thought out and cautious. But I hope that, should this life end and there is an after, that we can meet again. Until then, this is goodbye.

I’ll take care of everything, just as I promised, for as long as I can. And I won’t ever forget how you showed me, in the end, that the most important thing in life is family. Not work, not money, not power. As the kind pastor said, to us, on the day he prayed and helped you along your journey, it is so great to see family surrounding their loved one on their journey into the afterlife. And, despite my uncertainty with the beyond, I like to think you died feeling loved, and eventually I will make my peace with it.