Letting Dad Go

         It was Friday evening. October 11th 2002. My son Austin (eldest of my three children) had just finished hanging his first communion cross over the doorway of his bedroom. I was in the next room, on the computer, when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock. 6:55 P.M.

         Answering on the second ring, I heard my sister Lisa’s frantic voice on the line. "Jenny, Its dad, he's not breathing". My heart felt as if it had risen up into the back of my throat, making it difficult for me to breath. Always having been peculiarly good in a crisis, I understood that if I were going to find out what was happening; I would have to get Lisa calm enough to be able to tell me.

          Lisa is the middle child, black sheep of the family, five years my junior. Most of Lisa's childhood was spent bouncing between the street and group homes for troubled kids. At age 11, she had already run away a dozen times. Wherever Lisa went, trouble followed.

         "Lisa, take a breath, tell me exactly what happened to dad. Where is he now?" ”He's in the ambulance" "Where is Mom?" "Outside standing in the driveway." My mind was racing. I was confused, needed details, and all Lisa could manage to do was sob and babble incoherently. I had talked to Dad just the evening before. He complained of pain in his lower back and left leg telling me that, despite his not wanting to sit in a chair, in an over-crowded waiting room for six hours, he would go to the E.R. in the morning if the pain did not let up. Being in constant pain was becoming unbearable for him.

         My dad had had a long history of medical problems. Surgery as a young child to remove a defective kidney, Gout and bursitis caused him pain on a regular basis-throughout his adulthood, Alcohol poisoning nearly killed him at thirty-four, he was at least fifty pounds overweight (attributed mostly to Thyroid problems), and he drank heavily. Of all of these problems, the most troublesome was Sleep Apnea, which caused him to stop breathing at regular intervals while he slept.

         In between sobs, I was able to calm Lisa enough for her to summarize the day’s events. Dad had gone to the E.R. earlier that morning. The doctor who examined him had prescribed Percocet and Flexaril for pain and sent him on his way. When he got home he took both medications and napped on the sofa; he awoke hours later, and still in pain, took another dose.

         My mother and sister were in the living room watching TV when they noticed my fathers snoring had ceased all together, horrified they realized he wasn't breathing. Only minutes had passed since they had last heard the loud snoring. My mom rolled dad onto the floor and started CPR . Lisa called 911.

         The first thought to enter my mind upon hearing this sequence of events was OVERDOSE; a feeling of panic washed over me. "Lisa I will leave here as soon as my husband gets home." My husband came through the door at 7:15. I gave him an overview on my way by and rushed out. Austin ran out behind and begged me to take him. I did.

         I prayed for the duration of the 30-minute drive to the hospital. Part of me knew intuitively, for the past three or four months, what my inner child refused to face or believe. When I got to the hospital and entered the waiting room, I hugged each family member. Mom looked as though her entire world had come crashing down on top of her, indeed it had. Lisa wore a horrified expression and my youngest sibling Tommy, looked utterly lost and helpless.

         I sat in the chair next to Mom, Austin on my lap. I was glad I decided to let him come along; I needed him there, my brave little boy. After 20 minutes or so, the doctor came out to talk to the five of us. I searched his face for any inkling of hope; even a sliver would have been something to hold on to, there was none. He said that we could see dad for a minute and then they were taking him for a brain scan.

         Mom and I were holding hands as we entered the E.R. trauma room. I had an odd sensation standing there in that cold room, it seemed any hope I might have managed up until that moment, melted away. The minute I laid eyes on him, his large body, still on a gurney, covered only by a sheet. Barefoot and lifeless, bloodshot eyes only half-open, pupils fixed and dilated. Looking at his face, I could see that Dad’s body no longer contained his spirit. The expression “The eyes are the window to the soul” holds a deeper meaning for me today. I bore witness to its meaning that night, first hand.

         I do not remember what I did, if I touched or spoke to my dad; the only thing I vividly remember, the doctor walking in, handing the nurse a form for the CAT scan. I also remember her heartless reply: “You’re going to do a CAT scan on him?” I felt my heart begin to hammer at my chest and I shouted out to her, “he is still a human being!”. I turned and stormed out of the room, outraged and disgusted. I cannot say if she was aware or not that we were in the room.

I needed some air; I wanted to punch that nurse unconscious. My head was reeling, and a sensation of being out of body began to take over. I felt I was seeing what was happening, but I was not really fully there, like watching a movie, you can see what is going on and emotionally react to it in some way, but you do not participate.

         Saturday morning my father’s mother and two brothers arrived. They had made the two-hour ride by car. My grandmother seemed somewhat confused and disoriented. I found that to be a relief of sorts, this was her youngest son. The pain would have been unbearable for her were she lucid. We took turns sitting in dad’s room talking to him. Family and friends were trying to be optimistic, everyone except for me - I had gazed into a pair of soulless eyes.

          I began to think about the people who would have greeted dad on the other side, his own father, one of his children. I began to wonder what reason he would have to return to this earth with all of its problems and struggles. I wept then, wept for my inner child. I kept thinking about being fatherless for the rest of my own life; I thought about my childhood, recalled all of the good times we had shared as a family, I thought about my own children, the sadness I felt for them, losing their beloved Papa.

         Dad was a family man who had lived for his kids and grandkids, thrived in their presence. I thought about never being able to count on sage parental advice from him, I felt weak, as helpless as a small child. I was frightened of the fatherless future ahead. Dad had always been a source of my strength. I felt deeply sorry for Mom, losing her spouse of thirty years and my young brother just nineteen, still needed a dad to guide him.

         Up until this moment, Tommy had enjoyed all the benefits of being the youngest child. Still living at home, he was spoiled and had yet to face any challenges or struggles. He grew his hair long and listened to heavy metal music. I wondered how he would ever find the strength to cope without dad.

         I stayed close by Mom’s side, I felt needy, broken; I watched Mom, in awe as she sought to comfort us, she seemed so together, so strong and decisive, compassionate. I was sad; my heart crushed into tiny pieces. Still deep down I knew Mom was suffering beyond any pain I could comprehend. I could be of no comfort to her, needy as I felt. Soon there was talk of “Making a decision” a thought that terrified me to the core.

         I struggled to put this out of my mind; I resented being asked how I felt. I did not think I could make that sort of decision. I was not prepared to play God. Mom and I went to the chapel and prayed, I asked God for a sign, I pleaded "tell me what to do" we lit a candle amongst the dozens of candles already burning, and we paid our tithe. I did get the answer I sought that day.
"Let Go" rang loudly in my ears as I prayed.

         On Sunday, I went home for the first time in two days. I needed a respite, to be home with my husband and children. On Monday all extraordinary life-saving measures were halted. Life support turned off. The doctors had determined that there was no brain activity at all. We decided we wanted to donate Dad's organs, but were discouraged to learn that the drugs being pumped in to keep him alive and lack of oxygen to his brain when he stopped breathing had all damaged most of his major organs. We were able to donate skin and his retinas-both eyes. This was Dad's final gift to someone in need.

         Monday afternoon, while I was at the grocery store picking up dinner, Lisa called and told my husband that the arrangements were all set, I did not need to go after all. My first response to this news was anger; I wondered why I was suddenly excluded. Looking back now I realize it was a decision made out of love. Mom knew I was drenched in sorrow. She thought I couldn't handle being there. On some level, she was right. In all fairness I was acutely aware that I had already collapsed under the weight of one important decision. The wake was set for Thursday, the funeral for Friday morning. The waiting was miserable, like knowing you were going to have to
face unspeakable horrors. I wanted this nightmare to be over, now it was being delayed by almost a full week.

         I kept busy over the next three days. At the same time attempting to put the inevitable out of my mind. I did a lot of reading, helped the kids with homework, cleaned the house and arranged childcare. When Thursday dawned, it found me emotionally, and physically exhausted. Taking care of the last minute details, I prepared three or four black outfits and packed my overnight bag for Moms. I was aware that I had to leave at least an hour early to make it to Moms by five-thirty. Traffic on Thursdays and Fridays could be a nightmare. I decided I would leave home at 4 pm. At 3:30, I called my husband. Tied up at work, he told me to go and he would meet me there.

         In my car, traveling at a snails pace, I began to panic. Terrified of what now confronted me. I wanted to scream. My stomach in knots, my intestines all twisted up. I felt like I was in a bad dream, one from which I could not awaken. I considered staying on the road, just driving, getting as far away as possible, but where could I go? I wished to be anywhere else in the world, wished I could just vanish, disappear.

The normally 30 minute drive to Moms took 90 minutes with traffic. I had had too much time to think. I arrived at five-thirty the wake was at six. I was beginning to get a feeling of dread, co-mingled with anger. This wake was stupid and funerals are for the living. This wake was not going to help me to go on living in fact just the opposite. I wanted to remember Dad playing with the kids, laughing and joking, not the image that would soon be burned into my mind, his dead body in a casket.

         Arriving promptly at 5:45, we were greeted at the door by the funeral director. A pleasant man, late 60’s with salt and pepper hair; he stood about 6’ and spoke softly to Mom. I did not hear what he said. We each signed the guest book in turn and stood together at the entrance to the room where dad was on display. Frozen at the entrance; my legs felt like they would buckle at any moment, fear had gripped me and was refusing to relent.

          Mom tugged at my hand, urging me to step forward with her. I was unable to budge. The thought of seeing my father dead for the first time ever , combined with the knowledge that this would be the last time I would ever see him was unbearable. I knew that once I entered that room, my life would never be the same; after that, I could no longer pretend it had all just been a bad dream. I doubted I had the courage to face reality and truthfully, I did not care.

         When I could no longer stall, I entered the room with my eyes closed. Mom guided me and stayed by my side. When I reached the casket, I knelt down in front and slowly raised my eyes enough to see him. Mom decided that Dad should be dressed in his usual attire, no suit and tie, just his everyday style of dress. New gray sweatpants and a New England Patriots T-shirt, Mom had just bought him for his fifty-fourth birthday, two days prior to that fateful visit to the E.R. Surprisingly I thought he looked peaceful; the soulless eyes of that first night, now closed. My father was a large man and his broad shoulders seemed to be at rest for the first time ever.

         Only the top half of the casket was open. Dad’s hands folded together as if he were praying; I stared at his wedding band as the tears began streaming down my cheeks in a continuous flow. I could not believe that this was my dad. I was astounded that he still looked much like he had in life, though paler, much paler with a thick layer of makeup coating his face. The rosy tinge that in life had decorated his cheeks was absent; as was his smile. His thick brown mustache remained and his double chins. His hair, still a dark brown with streaks of gray mixed in here and there. Compared with his peers, Dad was not very gray at all.

         When I touched his arm it was ice cold, something I found alarming. It was as though he had just come out of the freezer. I must have been kneeling there for over fifteen minutes when people began arriving. Some of Dad's co-workers told stories, of how Dad had touched them in little ways, ways that still meant a lot to them. I found these stories comforting and some even a little surprising. I treasured knowing that my dad had meant so much to these folks, who were strangers to us.

         Dad was always a bit gruff on the exterior but soft, loving and kind on the interior. He often went out of his way to help others, especially friends or family members. Dad’s whole life was devoted to his family. He would have walked to the ends of the earth had any of us needed him.

         I remembered how supportive, non-judgmental he could be when I was growing up. If I were going through a rough time, he would always give me a little pep talk. Always try to make me feel better. He was a great dad. I felt he was the best dad I could have possibly asked for, even if he was not perfect. Overall, we learned a great deal from each other about family, even if I hadn’t realized it until I had a family of my own.


         I returned to my seat and glanced around at all of the flower arrangements, one in particular caught my eye. A carnation mix with a ribbon that read ”Best Friend” and sticking up out of the top were a pair of drumsticks. My dad and Steve had been friends since they were teenagers; started a few bands together, and played the local clubs on occasion. My dad had hopes of hitting the big time one-day but once kids came along, that dream quickly faded to black.

         I cried through most of the four-hour wake, just sobbed and sobbed. I wondered if the tears would ever stop, or would I always be this sad? I could not measure the depth of the sadness I felt. It was as if I had taken on the sadness of everyone in the entire room. It was a deep, dark abyss, bottomless and black. I thought only one more day to get through. After tomorrow, I could go home and wallow in depression and self-pity. When we got home from the funeral parlor, my husband went out and got dinner, Chinese take-out. I think we all felt emotionally bankrupt.

         We had to be at the funeral home at 8:00 A.M. the next morning. This was so we could view dad one last time. At 8:30, they loaded his casket into the hearse. My mom went in the limo right behind the hearse, and my husband, brother, sister and I all went in my minivan. We played Beatles music on the radio. The Beatles were dad's favorite and I found this very comforting. Almost as if dad was with me in the car; the funeral home attendants lined up the cars and we rode to the church.

          I sobbed as I helped my siblings unfold the cloth to cover Dad’s casket. I had decided that I would do a reading as a final gift to Dad from his daughter. When the time for me to read came, I forgot to bow as I stumbled to the alter.
I just barged on up to the microphone. The priest was helpful gesturing and reminding me what to do. I read as quickly as I could now self-conscious. Remembering to bow as I left the alter, I returned to my seat.

         At the cemetery I stood back a little from the crowd. All gathered around dad's casket faces somber and sad. The tears began to flow again as my sister read a tribute she wrote, made up of some of her fondest childhood memories. Near the end of the service the priest handed out carnations announcing” You can place this flower on the casket as a symbol of letting go, or you can keep it as a reminder of Tom”

         I choose that moment to let dad go.

         Next month will be two years since dad passed. Life has never been the same but day-by- day we manage to cope. I do the best I can to keep my family close and appreciate everyday I have with them. I still cried as I wrote this, the pain never completely goes away, always there like a ghost, haunting. It is easier now; I can write and talk about this experience as I never could before.