He was 84. His hair was starting to thin, but he still had more than many men half his age. Up until the age of 82, he had ridden his motorcycle to work every day. If there was anything he loved more than a good joke, a good meal, or an ice cold beer – it had to be spending time with his grandkids.

To me, he was immortal. At the time, the only way I would ever think of his age was to brag about him to myself: Look at him! 84! He still climbs up onto the roof at my brother’s house to make repairs, and does more in a day than I do in a week! It never occurred to me that he would ever not be there. My father would always be there.

In the summer of 1987, I drove up to Lewiston with a friend who was interested in buying my father’s motorcycle. My dad had taken a spill a few years before, he had executed a very tight u-turn at the top of a hill, and when he’d put his foot down because he’d lost momentum while making such a tight turn, his foot had ended up on the lower side of the hill, and the weight of the bike made him lose his balance. He attributed the fall to his age (I attributed it to the hill,) and he decided that his motorcycle days were over.

We’d made a date to meet him at his garage. Like my dad “ it seemed that the garage had always been there. He’d built it by hand about a decade before I was born. It still stands today, on the shores of the mighty Androscoggin River. We pulled into the yard of the garage, and I spotted his car. Everything was strangely quiet – no one else was around. The door to the garage was still closed, nothing stirred. It took me a moment to notice that my father was still in his car, with his head resting against the steering wheel, unmoving. I could feel a squeezing building up in my chest as I nearly flew the short distance to his car. I opened his door with my heart in my throat – and he looked up, smiled at me, and got out of the car, looking as if nothing at all had been wrong.

“Dad! You scared me! Are you okay?”

He smiled wryly and replied that he’d just been a bit dizzy, and had decided to rest for a few minutes. He cocked his head, peering at me over the top his glasses, and with the same crooked smile, he added: “The old man isn’t going to live forever, you know!”

I felt a physical jolt, as if I’d been punched. Just then, my friend came over to us, and began to ask my father about the motorcycle. With his words still ringing in my ears, I pretended that something in the distance caught my eye and I walked away, leaving them talking about the bike. I was grateful for the opportunity to wander off until I could gain control over the suffocating ache in my throat, and the tears which insisted on filling my eyes, in spite of my every effort to maintain my composure.

Three months later, the days were growing shorter, the nights were becoming quite cool. We were headed into another dreary, cold Maine autumn.

For once, I didn’t feel the fall dreariness dragging me down into the inevitable winter doldrums. I was light hearted, and joyful! It was October 1st, and my parents had just moved down from Lewiston to be near my brothers and I. With no forethought, we’d all managed to end up within a few minutes of each other in this tiny southern Maine town; it was good to finally have the family together again!

We’d spent the day helping them move into their little apartment, and once home for the evening, I was planning the remainder of my week. Dad had already made his meal requests: spaghetti and beef stew – soon please!

“My pleasure Dad!”

My pleasant reverie was interrupted by my dear friend Joanie, as she burst through the door without knocking. Her face was pale, and she looked terrible! I came up out of my chair and rushed over to her – I was certain that something terrible had happened.

All she could do was gasp: “He died!”

I held her while she cried – long, agonized sobs, wracking her body. How ironic! My best friend lost her father on the day that I got mine back. I drove Joanie and her mother to Central Maine Medical in Portland, and so began one of the worst two weeks of our lives.

The next morning, I went to my folks’ place, and told my Dad about my friend’s father. We had intended to introduce them. They were both mechanics, and we felt certain that they would develop a friendship. Sadly, it was not meant to be. My dad, my dear dad … that morning, he mourned the friend he would never get to meet.

Over the next week, we attended Joanie’s father’s funeral. I spent every free moment trying to get my parents settled in. With an undercurrent of guilt for Joanie’s sake, I exchanged silly stories with my dad, and felt a warm wash of love flow over me each time I saw him laugh or enjoy something I’d brought for him. I knew I’d never get tired of seeing him happy and laughing … it was so good to have him nearby! I planned all of the things we would together: I would share my favorite spots in the woods, where all of the wild berries and nuts grew. He and I had spent a lot of time doing that sort of thing when I was young.

The evening of the 8th day after my parents arrived, I got a call from my brother …

“Dad’s in the hospital.” I began to panic, and he hastened to add “Don’t worry, we just came from there, and he’s OK. He was asking for his glasses when we left so that he could read something. It’s late, so I wouldn’t go tonight.”

He explained that my father had fallen forward out of his chair, and landed on the floor, apparently unconscious. My mother had the presence mind to call an ambulance. It would be two more days before her Alzheimer’s would suddenly become so pronounced that we all realized that she had something terribly wrong with her. But on that day, she’d still had enough on the ball to do the logical thing.

The next morning, before I could organize myself to get out the door and rush over to see my dad, my brother called again …

“Dad took a turn for the worse during the night. I think you’d better get up to the hospital.”

And he had. He was no longer conscious. Sometime during the night, he’d had a massive stroke which left him in a coma, and unable to breathe on his own. I had missed seeing him while he was still conscious … missed hearing his voice for one last time … missed his smile … missed being able to tell him how much I loved him … to hang on … not leave us … please Dad … don’t leave!

I stayed by his bedside almost constantly, only going home to make sure my husband was feeding the kids, and that everything was OK there. Most of that day, I stood by my father, talked to him, caressed his hands, his face … kissed his forehead. I willed him to stay … but he didn’t respond – he couldn’t respond.

Day number 10 dawned, and the dread I was feeling was suffocating me – making it impossible to breathe. I wanted to climb into the bed beside my father, force him to get up, and take his place. I knew it wouldn’t help – it wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing I could do would ever bring him back.

We’d been told the night before that his EEG was horribly abnormal – he would never regain consciousness or breathe on his own again. The only reason he was alive was the respirator. We were told that we had a decision to make.

My brothers made the decision – the respirator would be removed, but if he tried to breathe on his own, we would then do everything we could to keep him with us. A very perceptive nurse realized that I was not comfortable with the decision, and she offered to withdraw the heart medication they’d started giving him on his first night there. She expected that nature would take its course then, and that no one would have to do anything as immediate and decisive as “pull the plug.”

My brothers agreed. The medications were withdrawn; over the next few hours, his heart got stronger, and his blood pressure went down to normal. He was tough – he’d always been tough. When it became apparent that removing his medication was not going to cause things to happen on their own, my brothers again made the decision to remove the respirator.

Everything inside of me rebelled – my Dad! We couldn’t do that to my Dad! The nurse quietly came in, and after giving me a look of deep sympathy, turned off the machine. My youngest brother was on his left … I was on his right, we were each holding one of his hands. Joanie had my mother in her arms at the foot of the bed, and my oldest brother was looking on from a short distance.

I cried silently as I waited for a miracle … which never came. My youngest brother, with his voice cracking, whispered hoarsely, “Breathe Dad! Breathe!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. It seemed like an eternity before the line on the monitor went flat … two eternities. Memories flashed through my mind like a slide show … picking blueberries in the woods with him as a youngster … going up with him in his friend’s little Cessna on Sunday mornings after church … our first really long, honest, adult talk one day when he was dropping me off at nursing school … him holding me, not too many years before, and telling me how proud of me he was … and now, now he was gone. Irrevocably, irretrievably gone.

I looked up in confusion as I heard my mother reply “No, eh? Not really?” when Joanie told her that her husband was “gone.” In the less than 5 minutes between the nurse coming in and turning off the machine, and my father’s passing away, she had already forgotten what was happening. Our father died … and we realized then that we were also losing our Mom. By the time of the funeral, only a few days later, she no longer recognized one of her closest friends.

This October 10th will mark the 19th anniversary of my father’s death. I’ve never stopped mourning him. If he were still alive, he would have turned 103 this last April 13th.

Little girls of any age should never need to say goodbye to their Daddies.

Posted: Sunday, May 14th, 2006 at 8:15 pm under: Family & Friends, Letting Go. Comment Feed (RSS 2.0). Interact: Comment or Trackback.