November 16th

Had you some sense of empathy, you might have asked why my head was on my desk. I wouldn’t have painted you the full picture, but a shortened, easier-to-sleep-at-night summary so that you would understand and felt satisfied with the decision to leave quiet girls alone with their heads on their desk.

But you didn’t.

It was a Sunday morning in November. November 16th, precisely. It was warm, but still “sweater weather.” My father had asked me on Saturday to come down and do his grocery shopping for him the next day, because he was having trouble moving and walking. We thought it was mini strokes; it was actually a tumor that had metastasized to his brain. No one, not even his primary care physician, knew it at the time.

I, being the selfish person that I am, wanted to lollygag in the good weather for a few minutes more, and sent him a text telling him so. He didn’t respond. I got a phone call less than ten minutes later from his dear childhood friend, Jerry, saying he had been trying all morning and was unable to reach him. I knew something was wrong. I immediately drove to his home, trying to chase the tears away by saying “He’s okay. He just fell and can’t reach his phone. He’s not dead.” My heart knew better.

When I arrive, I called “Dad! Dad!” as I ran through the house. He was in his bed, breathing shallowly and with breaths far apart. He didn’t respond to my shaking him. He didn’t flinch when the phone rang as I tried to call him to wake him. He wasn’t there.

I called 911. They misunderstood most of what I said and was trying to get me to perform CPR, but I couldn’t move him. He was so frail and fragile. I kept apologizing to him and the operator, as I tried to turn him on his back. Fortunately, the paramedics came. I left the phone off the hook as I let them in. They just hung it up as I tried to feebly tell them 911 was on the line.

While they worked, I stood in the room across the hall. They were saying it was low blood sugar, and the awful truth hit me.

Dad had always said, on his endless Saturday afternoon drives through central North Carolina and his memory lane, that if he had to end his life, he’d overdose.

A paramedic spoke to me once they got him on a gurney. I don’t remember what they said except drive carefully and calmly.

I got to the hospital when he was waking up. I had to answer a series of questions for him, such as “does heart disease run in the family”, “how long has he been diabetic? Does he manage it well?” and “Does depression run in the family?” and my favorite that I always have to answer yes to when asked personally of me, “Has he ever tried to commit suicide?” My answer for him was a little different. Instead of yes, multiple times and running through my attempts, I told him of the idyllic drives through the farmlands and him saying he’d overdose when it came down to it. The nurse said that’s what it looked like had happened here, but they’d do a brain scan to be sure.

As he was coming out of the fog, all he could say was “Fuck you.” Unsurprisingly, he said it to doctors and nurses who were poking and prodding, but he said it to me, repeatedly. The nurse who did the intake told me that it wasn’t me, that it wasn’t really him saying that, but the remnants of the drug leaving his mind. It was little comfort.

They took him for a CAT scan. When they asked him to move his legs to the table, he spoke his first cogent half sentence: “Can’t. Too weak.” I was in the hall, sobbing.

I sat with him for just a few minutes after that, where he’d yell “Please, just let me die.” The doctor came and took me to the family room, and told me he had lung cancer, and had it for some time. He asked if I had known; I hadn’t. He asked if my father knew, and I said he probably did. He also told me had brain cancer and asked if I thought my father knew of that. I said no, He told me there wasn’t much to be done at this stage, and that with him asking to die, he’d probably refuse all treatment. I asked how much longer he had. The doctor refused to give me a number of months, weeks, or days, and just said, “Not much longer.”

He went on to tell me in another state, like Washington, doctor-assisted suicide would be an option in this scenario. As we were in North Carolina, he could only make him comfortable and let him die.

My father was moved to a private room. It was suggested that I get something from the café, as I had been there all day and hadn’t eaten anything. As I was pulling the curtains and myself together, my dad said his only prayer: “Please God, give her some relief.”

I went to the café, but I still didn’t eat anything. Instead, I called my aunt and Jerry, begging them to come.

He was still begging them to let him die when I returned to emergency ward. I couldn’t go back in crying, so I sat outside, sobbing. A cop walked by, looked at me sadly, and moved along. Then some insensitive nurse demanded to know who was crying, as if it bothered her. The cop told her there was a baby crying down the ward, and that was probably it. To this day, if I ever saw that nurse, I would punch her “Everyone needs to be happy” smile down her throat.

When I went back in, I talked about how much I was going to miss him, how I wished he would see how big my kitten would grow, and about how I was sad he’d never get to teach me to shoot a bow and arrow (he had been a state champion at one point). We told each other how much we loved each other.

They finally came and moved him to hospice. I went to Wal-Mart and bought a new shirt. It’s amazing how snot-covered one shirt can become, even with tissues to stem the flow. I went to Hospice afterwards. He was finally resting when I arrived, but they told me his only concern was for me. I never had another two-way conversation with him again.

He lasted less than four days in Hospice and died the morning of the 20th. On the 19th, the last thing I told him was that he was a better father than Atticus Finch (this was before the controversy surrounding the character.) He wanted to be a better father than him, and damn it, he was.

So, there it is, the memories that grow especially vivid every year, from the 16th – 20th. So, I may put my head down to cover the tears that leak.

I was all alone that day, and your insensitivity just reminds me that I am alone every day.