My dad was the light of my life. Everybody said, but I already knew, my dad was cool. He even smoked Kool Cigarettes. My dad never met a stranger, loved to laugh, loved SNL, the Braves, football and me. He loved and lived life in the here and the now. He taught me so much, by example, about how to look at, understand and accept other people, warts and all.

He never demanded my respect, he earned it. He never raised his voice to me though I can't understand how he managed not to. I was crazy tactile defensive when I was 5 - 7 years old and would go bat shyte crazy if he didn't part my hair EXACTLY in the middle, or tie my bathing suit top so tight that I had wrinkles in my skin on my back, or if he did not put my hair barrettes in tight enough to pull my eyebrows up an inch higher than normal. He would just chuckle and redo it. No matter how many times it took, he was still smiling.

He showed me how to plant a garden and I "helped" him harvest the goods when the time came. Banana is my favorite flavor. And when I found a yellow pepper in the garden I asked him what it was. "Oh, that's a banana pepper. A sweet pepper." No need to say anything more! Sounded friggin delicious to me! I scurried on up to the house pulled a kitchen chair up to the sink and washed the pepper. I took a big bite, anticipating the sweet banana flavor. But what I got was horrifying to my 6 year old tongue! I screamed bloody murder. Daddy came running into the house looking like he'd been scared clean out of his shoes. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" he asked, panicked.

"YOU SAID IT WAS SWEET!" I cried as if he had betrayed me.

My dad saved my life, I suppose, when I was 4. He was making me a pb&j at the kitchen counter while I sat at the table and waited. There was an exceptionally shiny silver dollar or 50 cent piece lying on the table. I thought it looked like that candy that was wrapped in foil paper to look like money. I put it in my mouth. It was cold and smooth, but didn't taste like candy. My thoughts were "oh well might as well swallow it." and I did.

My dad turned around and immediately saw the coin was gone and with no questions asked, he grabbed me by my ankles and held me upside down over the table. I remember not knowing what he was doing and the suddenness of the action. He shook me up and down and to my utter astonishment, out came the bright shiny silver coin. It bounced onto the Formica and chrome table top and rolled to a stop. (even today I wonder how this actually worked). He didn't yell at me or even act mad. He put the coin in his pocket and gave me my lunch.

My dad was interesting and he was always doing some project or other and I always wanted to be a part of it. The result of that is that I have an impressive set of tools and am handy as hell for a woman. I got most of my character traits from him and OldestSavageSon was lucky enough to get to spend a lot of time with him during his formative years so he too has many of my dad's characteristics.

Ever since before I could walk, my dad took my sister and me to Braves games - always having season tickets. We would get there early and get some sort of door prize; a helmet, bumper sticker, bleacher creature (failed mascot). We always sat behind home plate somewhere - usually close. All the Braves thought we were so cute and they would take whatever door prize we'd received and autograph it for us. One time I was fed up with them writing all over my stuff and cried. I wish I could remember which Brave he was. I could tell he was bewildered but felt bad about it.

Daddy was a foul ball catching machine! I had 3 hank aaron autographed baseballs, and a whole host of others. I was there the night Hank hit the home run that got him into the hall of fame - it was April, 1974 and it was his 715th home run. The lights went out in the stadium, everyone was on their feet. My dad was a lunatic of joy. Fireworks were shot into the air as he touched home plate. I turned to my sister and said, "What's the big deal? He ALWAYS hits a home run." I now love to go see the Braves play. I was there on the 25th anniversary of Hank's historical home run.

I always felt safe when I was with my dad. Totally safe. I can remember sitting on the back porch when I was 6 with a lap full of kittens, the sun drenching my hair with warmth, and Daddy on the other side of the screen door insuring all was good. That. That's what it felt like to be in his presence. I grew to absolutely LOVE Saturdays, his day off. I knew absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong on a Saturday because my dad was home.

When he died it was sudden even though I had been told he had 12 months to live. My mom didn't know how to tell me he was dying and so she kept that news from me for a couple of months. When I found out I rushed to my his side, but mother had forbidden me to cry or talk about death or anything regarding death. I sat by his side the whole day and would not get up for anything in the world. Regardless of mother's pissed off glares. I'm glad I ignored her. That was the last time I saw him alive.

He died of a heart attack brought on by the Chemo. I wrote a note, and put it in his coffin. It said all the things mother had forbidden me to say that last day. I told him that, to me, he was like soft fuzzy kittens, dew drops and rain, sunshine and Saturdays that never end.

 

---

Daddy was diagnosed with lung cancer from a routine check up. six months of Chemo and radiation and he was cancer free. Three months later it was back. We had discussed it and my dad was going to have surgery to have the mass removed. The surgeon said he could not do it and I argued with that. (Weird as it may be, the study and research in pathology of the incurable/fatal diseases has been a hobby of mine for around 20 years. OldestSavageSon calls my books and journals on the subject a "library of Horrors," which is about right.)

My mom did not want to argue with the doctor but I threatened her that if she did not plead my case with him I would do it for her and I wasn't going to be nice about it. I told her what to say and she called the surgeon. He told her he had to go do some research on it first because he was not sure.

I told her to get a different surgeon who knows this shit off the top off his head. I don't trust any doctor who doesn't know as much as I do. She said, no, because daddy was comfortable with this guy. Right about then her other line rang and it was the surgeon. He told Mother the cancer could be removed surgically if it had not spread so he was scheduling an MRI to make sure it hadn't.

The MRI showed a "spot" on my dad's liver and the radiologist's remarks were that it was highly suspicious and assumed to be cancerous. The surgeon backed out but I insisted on a PET of the liver or a biopsy before I was calling it quits. They went ahead and started Daddy on Chemo again and I was told it was to prevent the cancer from spreading until more was known about the spot on the liver. This was February 2006.

It seemed to be taking them a long time to get this biopsy but everyone assured me it was going to be done. Then on April 28, 2006, my phone rang at around 9:30PM. It was my mom. I could hear my sister talking also. I knew if they'd done a three way, it had to be bad. I went out onto the back porch to escape the chaos in my house (kids being noisy). My sister said to my mom, "Well are you going to tell her, mama?"

There was a long pause and then my mom said, "No, you go ahead."

My sister said, "Dad is dying, Linda. They know the spot on his liver is cancer and that it has spread there from his lungs. They think they didn't get it all the first time and it came back stronger and faster. They put him on chemo to shrink it enough for him to live another year............. they told him to get his affairs in order because he had from six to twelve months to live. Mama and me have known this for 2 months, but Mama didn't know how to tell you. She thought it would kill you to know it."

 

Silence.


"Linda?"
"I'm here."
"Are you alright?"
"I'll call you tomorrow."

I went to my parent's house that weekend and Daddy was in bad shape. He nearly fell from his weakened state. My dad, the strong man, now barely able to walk because of the strong dose of Chemo he was taking.

School would be out on May 25th and I planned on spending the entire summer with my dad. Maybe take him to Florida. And for sure we would go to the Braves games. I intended to try and make up for the years I had been so far away, rather than just around the corner as I had always been before I remarried.

Because of my two youngest kid's loudness (they talk as if they are deaf), I was asked by my mom, to pretty much stay away while Daddy was sick. She made it out as if it was Daddy's wish/request and I didn't find out until after he died that he never said any such thing.

Do you feel that?

She kept me away from my dying father because my kids are too loud for her, and I'm sure my dad thought I had abandoned him or I just didn't care that he was sick and dying.

The chemo made my dad nauseous and purple grape juice was about all he could stomach. He had to throw up but he didn't make it to the bathroom in time and Mother bitched at him for "staining her new carpet."

My sister called me to vent. She went and bought Mama a carpet steamer so she would shut up about her damned carpet. "Daddy deserves a fucking MEDAL for putting up with that shit all these years!" she shouted and I nodded, knowingly. I know my mom loved him with all of her heart, she just sometimes said hurtful things when Mr. Clean came knocking on the door of obsession in her mind.

Mother is a neat freak to such an extreme that she lets it control her life and keep her from having deep, meaningful relationships with other people for fear that they will mess up her house. That has been the core of her bitchiness throughout mine and my sister's lives. It is THE reason I left home in a HUFF when I moved out - I just couldn't take it anymore.

My mom verbally blamed my dad for all things bad in her life, even though he was the love of her life. I know now, how deeply she loved him and how desperately she misses him. Something she had always kept hidden, at least from my sister and me, until now.

 

I went again to see my dad on mother's day, the following weekend. I gave him a large print NIV Bible. He had never had one and was still a "baby Christian." I wanted to write something inside the cover but due to family obligations, I ran out of time. I told myself I would write something to personalize it the following weekend.

Daddy was real tired and kept drifting off to sleep in his favorite yard chair. I stayed by his side and he would peek at me every now and again out of one eye.

My mom kept glaring at me as if to say, "Get up and occupy your hyper as hell daughter," who was wanting my mom to run laps around their huge yard.

Nothin' doin'. Fuck that, I was NOT getting up. She had already robbed me of so much time with him I would not allow her weakness to take anything more.

My mom is a supreme weakling. Always has been. She thinks it's endearing but I think it's dangerous. Mother was very dependent and I am very independent. We are opposites.

The Wednesday after Mother's day, May 17th 2006, around 8:00/8:15 PM I was upstairs installing a computer for the kids to play on when the phone rang. I ran to SavageHusband's hidey hole and grabbed the phone.

"Your Daddy's had a heart attack or something."
"WHAT?" My dad had a really good heart so this was a strange turn of events and I felt sure she was wrong about it. "Did you call 911?"
"Yes, they're here and they're working on him now. They are about to take him over to the hospital."
"I'm on my way!"

OldestSavageSon, who had grabbed the downstairs phone and heard the whole conversation, met me in the hall, looking terrified. "Put Noah's shoes on him. I'll call SavageHusband."

I called SavageHusband from the car and told him to leave work and meet me at the hospital.

"Do you think we should see if someone can watch the kids first?" he asked. At this, I bit his head off for being stupid. If my dad did indeed just have a heart attack, he might make it and he might not. I didn't want to rob my kids of a chance to say good-bye just because the younger two's behavior was generally, and age appropriately, a pain in the ass. Not to mention that there was not a minute to spare.

I called my sister to tell her I was on my way. She said she was already at the hospital, waiting outside the ER where the ambulance would come in and she could hear the sirens approaching. The drive from my house to my parent's, usually took around an hour and twenty minutes. I pressed my flashers and stomped on the gas and made the trip in 36 minutes.

I made the kids stop arguing and insisted they pray. I prayed that God would at the very least let my dad hang on until I got there. I wanted to say my good-byes. I got an immediate response from God. "Don't." as in 'don't pray this.' "it is already done."

I began to cry and beseech the Lord. ".........but You can do all things. You are the beginning and the end. You can bring back a heart beat and breathing if you want to. All I want is 15 minutes. More if possible. A whole year if possible. but at least 15 minutes." I cried because I feared I already knew the answer. I decided to put it out of my mind because I would have a wreck at this speed with tears blurring my vision.

I wondered why my sister had not called me with an update yet. 'Maybe she is in the ER with my dad,' I hoped.

When we arrived at the Hospital, my brother in law, was waiting for me in the parking lot. He said he would park my car so I could go on inside. This gave me hope!

My family was in the 'bad news' room of the ER. This was not encouraging. I opened the door and was shocked to my foundation to see some stranger caressing my mother in a creepy, molesting kind of way. I almost said, "Who the fuck are you?" I caught my words in time to correct them but they still came out just as harsh. My sister's best friend, guffawed and quickly clasped her hand over her mouth because I had conveyed what she had been thinking.

I cannot hide my feelings. My eyes tell on me. And right then I was burning this dude at the stake. He jumped up and extended his hand to me and introduced himself as my mom and dad's preacher. "You ain't like any preacher I've ever seen," I thought, but I shook his hand and wondered if this bullshit introduction was really necessary at this particular moment.

"Nice to meet you," I said, mechanically, then looking around him to my mom, I said, "Where's Daddy? Can we see him now?" All three of my kids were huddled behind me grasping tightly to a piece of my clothing, in fear of the bad news they sensed was forthcoming.

"Where's SavageHusband?" My mom asked.

"He's on his way," I said, "but he wouldn't want me to wait on him. What is Daddy's status?"

No one said anything.......... Fuck!

"Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is happening here?"
All heads turn to my mom.

"He didn't make it. He's gone."

OldestSavageSon collapsed into a chair and cried pitifully for my dad had been the greatest father figure in his life. YoungestSavageChildren pulled my clothes tighter with their little fists. My vision seemed to create a long tunnel between my mother and me as I just stared at her in disbelief. Everyone, except my kids, became tense and seemingly ready for combat.

I gave Preacher man a dirty glance as he seemed to now be invading my space. They had all thought I would go ballistic when they told me and seems they had worked out a strategy for lunatic control if I freaked.

"I don't believe it," I said.
The nurse came in and asked if we were all here yet.
"No, we're still waiting for one," my mom replied.
Oh yeah, SavageHusband. What the fuck was he doing, polishing the stainless steel on the toilets at QT? (SavageHusband has to pee constantly on road trips and he always goes to QT and farts around for far too long.)

I opened my phone to call him when he walked in the door behind me. He hugged me and said, "I'm so sorry."

What??? He knew??? How? They told him but not me?

My mom poked her head through the door and told the nurse we were all there. My kids & my nephew stayed in the bad news room because they wanted to, sharing your feelings for dead bodies.

My dad was lying on a gurney with a sheet pulled up to his chest. Respirator still strapped to his face, the strap folding his right earlobe as it was hastily put on him. A tube from the center of the respirator still pushed down his throat with a tiny piece of food on the external end; a remnant of his last supper.

His hands, as familiar as my own face, lay atop the sheet and by his sides. I reached out and held his precious hand; not yet cold, but not warm with life either. I felt for a pulse, I stared at his chest, searching for the rise and fall of breathing. I placed my ear to his chest. Silence.

I began to weep.

This cannot be. If his life was here only moments ago why can we not put it back inside him? Why is life so fucking fragile? All I needed was 15 minutes to tell him how much I love him.

I wanted to tell him I had stayed away while he was sick because Mom had said he could get well sooner that way. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and how important he has been to me all of my life. I wanted to tell him he was my Eternal Sunshine of Saturdays that Never End ©. Now I would never be able to do that.

I held his lifeless hand to my cheek, my tears washing over it and heaved great sobs of sorrow, remorse and regret. My sister who could never bring herself to touch a dead person, watched in horror as I held our dead father's hand, then her horror turned to sorrow as I broke her heart with the outpouring of pain in mine. She began to cry. Her best friend and her husband hugged her from each side.

I bent down and kissed his forehead. "Wake up, Daddy. I'm not ready yet. I still need you. I love you so much. Please come back."

My mother couldn't stand it a second more and she burst into tears. The preacher/molester was beside her with his hands all over her and I wanted to cold cock his ass and demand some respect for my father. I wish I had in some ways. I restrained myself because my dad had liked this man, though I could not see why.

This was not real to me. He was not dead. There was no. fucking. way. he could be dead. I knew this was some bullshit nightmare and once I discovered the truth of the matter, a sign of life within my dad, I would wake up. But the nightmare raged on. I stood up straight and looked around the room to the corners of the ceiling. "I know you're here," I thought, "Why can't I see you? Please just go back inside?"

"It's better this way. You have already seen me die once. Wouldn't it be harder to see me die twice? It's better this way. Accept it and I will still be near you," I felt him say.

The acceptance came, along with the out of control meltdown. I sat on the floor and cried loudly. I was mad. My life had been a shit hole of a life with only a few shining lights in it and one was just snubbed out. Now I sat alone on the cold floor of the hospital ER in a room full of people and the dead body of my dad lying on the gurney next to my head and I was more lost that I'd ever been in my life. The only other person in the world, I thought, who understood me, was dead. The one who had infused my soul with the bright light in his soul which helped me overcome every rotten thing in my life's path and rise above it, was gone. I felt dead, too.

SavageHusband drove the kids home and I drove my mom back to her house. My sister was meeting us over there shortly. It was midnight. A new day had begun. I was sure the mountains would crack, the sun would never shine again and the birds would all fall silent forevermore. How could a new day have the audacity to begin without my father in it?

On the day of the funeral I went out in back of my parent's house and sat in my dad's favorite yard chair. I wrote all the things I had wanted to say that last day that we spoke, but my words had been sealed off by the warden. I placed the letter in the drawer inside of Daddy's casket and OldestSavageSon placed his Braves hat that my dad had bought him at their last game together in the drawer. I took a long last look at my dad's face, resisted the urge to pluck the one remaining hair on his head to keep with me forever. I resisted the urge to climb into the coffin with him and curl up by his side to keep him warm and so he wouldn't be alone in the grave and so I wouldn't be alone in this life. I gave him one last kiss on the head and they closed the casket. There is nothing so final in this world as that.

Words cannot assuage the anguish of the heart in matters of profound loss and time does not heal all wounds.

The heart attack was brought on by my dad's strong dose of chemo and was a known possible side effect to which a prescription of nitro glycerin along with a symptom sheet are usually given to patients in the event of a heart attack. My parents were not given either and were never told about the possibility of a heart attack. I don't know how I feel about that because it cut his life even shorter, but at the same time, he was ready to meet God and he did not have to suffer.

No sorry's please.

This post is dedicated to everyone who has lost their dad or mom.

 

I have also discovered that the special bond I have with OldestSavageSon, the closeness of our relationship, is not at all unlike the relationship between my dad and me. I totally understand him and he totally understands his dear old ma. A little piece of my dad lives on in both of us. I am grateful beyond measure.