I'm Still My Father's Daughter
Today's the eight anniversary of my father's death. He died in hospice after dealing with cancer for two years. He was treated at the Miami VA where he participated in four experimental trials, each one six months long, while maintaining a daily log that he gave to the oncologist at the end of every trial so that she could incorporate it into her data. He said he knew the treatments would never work, but he also knew someday there would be a young Marine with a wife and child who would fight the same cancer, and he wanted to make sure that guy had a real chance.
At one point we had an amusing conversation when he said it wasn't a surprise cancer would get him. "I've been shot, stabbed, burned, had my neck broken, sprayed with Agent Orange, you poisoned me**... It figures it would be my own body that kills me." "Dad, are you sure you didn't piss off some voodou woman or something? I mean, you messed around with a lot of woman playing that cute white boy routine." "No, I'm pretty sure. I mean, there was that one woman in Haiti..." I didn't ask for clarification on that one.
I sat with my father every day while he was in hospice. I would head there after work with dinner for him, picking up whatever he wanted that night, and I would stay there from Friday night to Sunday night with my dog laying in bed with him while we watched movies or I read to him. I didn't know then that I was his death doula, helping him plan his Celebration of Life. I'll tell that story in another post. I even had the chance to read his eulogy to him so he'd know exactly what I was going to say.
At the end of Act V, William Shakespeare wrote of King Leer, "He dies." This is the culmination of one of the greatest works of literature. So simple, and yet when I hear those words I am overcome with sadness, not because of the ending, but because of the wonderful stories that come before it.
My father lived a good life full of rich stories. He was a soldier and a teacher, a loving husband and an excellent father, an adventurer and a scholar, a smuggler and man of virtue, religious and irreverent. He was a historian; a conspiracy theorist; a man of many worlds, but few words. He jumped off waterfalls, spoke to animals, treasured books, and enjoyed life. And in the end, he died.
I ask that you not confide in me that this is the hardest part. The hardest will be keeping my memories alive. I ask that you share yours with me. I ask that you not surround me with your sorrow and condolences, but with love and laughter. I ask that you not hold my hand in silence, but listen to my father's music and drink with me to his name. I ask that you help me finish this last chapter of his life and close the book so that I may begin the next chapter of mine.
I will call it I'm Still My Father's Daughter and it will start with a quote from him: "History is written by people who have great imaginations."
** I accidentally poisoned my dad with diazinon. I found a tray of school cafeteria food in the kitchen covered by ants and sprayed it down heavily. The tray was soggy, so I decided to wait until it dried to dump it in the trash and left a note on it that said, "DON'T EAT. SPRAYED WITH POISON." My dad ate it anyway and wrote on the note, "Nice try!"
