The Last Weekend

There are certain sounds that bring terror in the heart instantly; a siren racing down your street, and a phone ringing in the predawn hours. It was the phone ringing at 5:30 am that thrust me into reality. I knew, as I sat in bed, who was on the other line. I did not want to answer it. It belted out it's urgent plea again. Somewhere a voice, "Do you want me to take it?" "No, it's for me."

"You need to know that by the time y'all get here he will be gone." Silence. Sharp intake of air that was no longer there. "Did you hear, Susie? Honey, I just wanted you to be prepared." "Yes, ma'am."

Most people use the term "fast forward" to speed up the story, to avoid the extraneous descriptions that can bog down a story, I've used the device before. This morning it describes the actual time from hanging up the phone to arriving at the hospital. "We're here." "What?" I laughed a bit, "Thank you, Scottie." Weak humor but it's all that could be felt.

He was so small. He could not be so small. Tubes twisting, twirling, tying him to apparatii that kept him bound to earth. Another voice laced with the taste of the Middle East loving whispered, "He should not be here now. Do not waste the time you have." I went to the bed and with each step I felt myself getting smaller, younger until I was his little girl again. His eyes were closed to the world he loved, his breathing labored. The nasty hiss of the snake that breathed for him intruding on my time. "Daddy, I'm home." Then despite the tube that was thrust down his throat succor, "Baby?"

The angel who was his doctor let out a gasp and was instantly on the other side of the bed. "Do you mind, Susie?" I allowed him the time to listen, inspect, gently searching for answers. I sat on the bed now holding Daddy's rough hand, stroking and softly talking to him about nothing. Slowly the eyes that held the sky opened, and the smile that melted many a trouble appeared. Again, "Baby?"

As each child arrived that entered the room to a more lucid Daddy until by afternoon he was able to converse in full sentences. At noon, I left to see if the kids were settled, to rest, and to discuss the morning's events with my brothers. When the phone rang. It's a horrible thing, the ringing of the phone in a house where death looms. My older brother answered assuming old roles of hierarchy but soon handed it to me. He shot me that Big Brother look of disgust for being usurped by an underling, "Mom, says she wants to talk to you." Mother said that Daddy had made the request to convert would I call the church and see if that was possible. she also informed me that at my Father's insistence they had removed all of the tubes. "A Father should look strong to his children. What sort of example am I setting."

At three o'clock a young man who looked to young to be anyone's priest entered the room, walked up to Mother and introduced himself, almost apologetically. He walked over to Daddy and introduced himself and shook hands. "Son, if you're going to bring me over your going to have to have stronger hand then that." That's Daddy! Then he turned to us, still looking so frail in spite of the strength in his voice and said, "Don't you people do this sort of stuff privately." "Well, yes sir" And we left, not far, just outside the door.

Remember the "fast forward" well we must have used all out tickets for that ride because now time had stopped. My Daddy is a loving man, gentle, generous but if you cross him that East Texas Farm Boy will come up and set you straight. He believed in the power of the truth and God help the man that was caught in a lie or didn't pull his weight. Five minutes. Thirty minutes. Two hours later the little priest came out of the room. "Oh, please Lord, don't let us all be excommunicated!" He was a bit embarrassed this little minister of God as he began to say, "I hope you don't mind but I've never really done one of these and....well....I'd like to talk this over with Father Daleo, to make sure I do everything right. Is that OK?" I'm not sure if Mother was more joyous over the conversion or the fact, that Daddy had not insulted the priest, but she took his hand and told him that would be fine. She gave him her home phone number along with my brothers' names.

It was the Saturday before Christmas. I mention it now only because Daddy's dying had thrust the joy of Christmas to some far corner of my heart. The first thing Daddy asked was if we had gotten the babies there Christmas. "Well, no, Daddy I was worried about you and I haven't really felt like it." "So, you wish that they should hate their Grandfather for taking Christmas away?" The sky had know turned to steel. "No, sir, it's just..." "Young lady, I had better see presents under the tree before the sun sets." He, of course, was right. Parents are always right in these things! We packed the kids into the Grandma Van and headed for the mall all arms and legs and squealing children. Father does know best!

The ceremony was that evening. We entered the room to find my Real Daddy who had spent the day flirting mercilessly with the nurses who knew him so well. He looked marvelous, clean shaven and smelling of Old Spice. My Daddy. He was a people person. Everyone loved him and we often remarked that you couldn't go anywhere in the world without running into to at least one person who knew him. He loved people and they loved him. The proof was in the little priest who was to perform the ceremony, they had bonded and were more Father and son then preacher and penitent. He glowed with the love that embraced him and emanated from within him. He was in his favorite venue; surrounded by family and friends.

Sunday morning dawned with a new energy in the house; teasing, talking, laughing, children running in and out the door. It was home. This time when the phone rang and my brother pick it up and answered with his usual hearty "Hello!"; actually more like a bellow but he's the Big Brother, who am I to correct. It was Mother, she always went up early in the morning, Daddy wanted to see us.

There he was, sitting in his bed, glasses perched on his nose, reading the paper, cussing the Cowboys (I know it wasn't football season but Daddy always cussed the Cowboys). When greetings were made and kids were settled he spoke. With every word the air slowly left the room. We were to go home now, all that needed to be said was said, all that was needed to be done was done. He was tired and he wanted to sleep and we kept him awake with all of our chattering. Christmas was coming and the babies needed to be home for Santa. We argued. Very bad move. We were silenced with the age old "I'm the Father speech."

We left, each to the distant point from which we came. We waited. The phone, once again, the enemy. Mother's call that Monday morning telling us that he had slipped into a comma. Finally, the phone call New Year's Day telling me what I knew before I even touched the receiver.

I wish I could tell you that it was depressing funeral, filled with the proper etiquette of the mourning. It was not because Father Tim's eulogy rang with the love of a someone who knew him, his friends could only tell of my Daddy's humor. loyalty, and generosity. And the fact that it was a theme funeral, Cowboy blue and silver!

No, there was sorrow. Tears that came in the night. Tears that come even now, sixteen years later when I recall the last weekend with the man who taught my heart how to love.