A Day of Unconditional Giving
For many years I tried to find the courage to deeply reflect on how I had cognitively and emotionally experienced my father's death from cancer in 1984. I knew that I had suppressed many distressing memories from those days and that there was still some unfinished business. At the time, my parents had lived in Denver while I was in Florida, so the struggles and complexities of the total cancer experience were unknown to me. Then an opportunity presented itself in 1999 in an illness narratives class taught by Dr. Carolyn Ellis. I had initially intended to conduct a solo research project involving self reflection and an examination of thoughts and feelings evoked in the process. However, after participating with Dr. Ellis on another project where we used interactive introspection (Ellis 1991, 30) to concentrate directly on emotion while talking about our pasts, I wondered if this approach would work with my mother and me. My father had been deceased nearly fifteen years, and over that time we had made only brief comments to each other about our loss. It occurred to me that my mother too may be harboring deep-seated emotions and stifling unresolved issues. I had some reservations about asking her to be a research participant because of the subject matter, but she willingly agreed.
The project consisted of three one-hour conversations between us that were recorded on tape, each focusing on a different period of time between 1981, when my father first learned he had cancer, and 1984, shortly after his death. We concluded with a half-hour session during which we reflected on our memories and examined our reactions to the conversations themselves. My primary objective was to determine the pros and cons of pairing a mother and daughter as research subjects in the context of a highly sensitive topic. However, from a personal perspective, I hoped that my mother and I would glean both cathartic and therapeutic benefits from this experiment.
The essay that follows, a product of our efforts, represents a continuous period of less than twenty-four hours on the day my father died. It is divided into vignettes that are snapshots in time highlighting specific emergent themes. In the text, I weave together actual transcription and dialogue from the sessions with other personal accounts, composite scenes, and poetry. Although the narrative is written from my viewpoint, it incorporates my mother's recollections as well. The story may have been very different without her contributions.
Today my parents will celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in an oncology wing of a Denver hospital. Today my father will take his last breath after his second bout with colon cancer at age fifty-seven. Today our lives will be changed forever.
As the sun emerged from behind the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, my mother and I stoically prepared ourselves for what we sensed would be the last time we'd make the trek to Patterson Memorial. Dr. McCarthy, Dad's specialist, had offered to arrange for us to stay overnight in the hospital, but we had declined without deliberation. Mother and daughter were attuned to each other at that point in a mysterious psychic connection. We knew that sleep would be essential, at least the kind we could get in my parents' bedroom, not on a roll-a-way cot. We needed our strength for whatever the new day would bring. Dad would not die during the night. He was holding on until their anniversary.
At 9:00 a.m. when visiting hours began, Mom and I were already on our way down the starkly-lit corridor leading to my father's private room. We had traveled that same route dozens of times in the past several days since he had been readmitted. As our footsteps echoed in the hallway, I recalled my mother's shocking words during her recent phone call to me: "Dad's doctor says to come now. Next week may be too late." I could still feel the shiver of terror that had coursed through my body, as if I had suddenly been buried by an avalanche and would soon suffocate. As I hung up the phone, my heart pummeled the inside of my ribcage in an attempt to escape. Paralyzing thoughts and images bombarded my brain. I could no longer deny the truth. My father was going to die.
Pausing briefly outside the door of his room, I held my breath and silently prayed that our decision to leave my father's side the night before had not been a mistake. Joy welled up in me at the sight of him sitting in bed with his glasses on. He appeared amazingly alert for a man who was hanging onto life by a thread and whose doctor had bluntly proclaimed that he should be dead by now. Dad would not give up without a courageous fight. "Oh, I'm going to beat it! I'm going to beat it!" he informed my mother when he learned that the cancer had returned. This was the same battle cry Mom heard in 1981 when the disease was initially diagnosed. He did "beat it" then - - but now?
With sunbeams penetrating the bare window, a supernatural luminescence accentuated the vibrant colors in the floral arrangements scattered about. My mother tenderly hugged and kissed her husband of thirty-five years. He had made it to September third. What a wonderful gift. "Happy anniversary! Here! You get your card back," she announced. Dad's face contorted slightly, revealing his confusion, then a smile began to form. He recognized it! This was the anniversary card he had bought for Mom many years ago, with a picture of two champagne glasses clinking together. Every year since then they had given it back and forth to each other. They cherished that card. This year my father was the recipient. What a wonderful gift. And how fortunate I was to have witnessed the enduring love between them. Now that it was my turn, I embraced Dad as tightly as his frail torso would allow, hoping that the intense love of his only child could radiate through him and provide comfort as he faced his final hours of life.
The celebration ended without revelry. There would be no champagne corks popping at Patterson Memorial. Mom and I resumed our meager efforts as caregivers. The hospital staff were providing all my father's basic needs, harshly evident from the tangle of plastic tubes attached to his body at various points, causing him to resemble a disheveled marionette. We provided what only we could - - unconditional love - - an entry not on Dad's medical chart.
One care-giving task Mom and I found satisfying was rubbing my father's feet. Dad's deteriorating condition had been accompanied by a loss of circulation in his lower extremities. Even wearing two pairs of hospital-issue socks, his feet would stay cold. So Mom and I took turns rubbing them - - rubbing and rubbing and rubbing - - as if we could transmit our affection by way of this tactile activity. Clearly, our sense of self-worth in this tiny corner of the world was inextricably tied to the sensual act of rubbing.
The intensity of human connectedness during our "rotating shifts" opened up an existential space for silent reverie. Once my mind wandered to the distant past, recalling childhood Christmases in Wisconsin: Dad, Mom, and me gathered around the tree, opening our presents as "Jingle Bells" played on the hi-fi. Every year I would buy Dad a gag gift, like the fake nose and glasses with the Groucho Marx mustache and eyebrows. I still remembered Dad's robust laughter as he placed them over his own thick lenses. "What a sight for sore eyes!" my mother had exclaimed. On that day, a new character was added to my father's repertoire. I could never be sad for long when he put on those cheesy nose and glasses. For a fleeting moment I imagined I was a child again and my father was healthy and strong, his body teeming with life. A solitary teardrop trickled down my cheek, gently nudging me into the present.
Detecting the need to temporarily relieve me of my duties, Mom offered to continue Dad's foot massage. Even as he dozed, she applied pressure to the balls of his feet with her soft, aging hands. This must have sparked a poignant memory. She began telling me about Dad's previous hospital stay when he was sequestered in a cramped room for nearly the entire month of August awaiting test results. Dr. McCarthy had been on vacation during most of that time, and the other medical staff were not permitted to release information to my parents, sentencing them to several weeks in purgatory. My mother's voice quivered as she spoke: During most of his stay, Dad had discouraged people from visiting him. "Ah, I look like Hell. I don't want anybody to come and see me looking like this," he'd say. Then all of a sudden he decided, "Yeah, I think I better have you come and see me more often." I was so glad. Since his room wasn't very pleasant, we used to go out and sit in the hospital solarium - - we used to sit and talk about our future. You know, what we were going to do in the future.
Tears glistened in Mom's eyes. As silence enveloped me, surreal images of my parents sitting in the solarium formed in my consciousness:
We sit on the garden swing together
Holding hands like teenagers
It is so tranquil, so peaceful in this semi-private space
Time passes but does not take us with it
We laugh, we reminisce, we talk about our future
Then silent, our minds meld, our hearts entwine
The sun streams though the glass skylight, warming us
We draw strength from its presence
An aura of love surrounds us
Love that has flourished for decades
What could disrupt this perfect solitude?
Yet we know life is fleeting
From the syncopated rhythm of our
breathing
Through it God is beckoning
But only one of us will respond to His call
The nurse who took Dad's vital signs abruptly entered the room and the images vanished. While efficiently performing her tasks, she repeated Dr. McCarthy's instructions to involve my father in activities to keep him alert when he appeared to be losing his focus. My mother and I looked at each other in shocked disbelief. How could we have forgotten this particular responsibility, one that might prevent Dad from slipping into a coma? Mom grabbed her purse and began fishing through it, snatching out the scratch-off lottery ticket she had purchased for him at a convenience store that morning. The lottery ticket - - yes! Simple pleasures had meant so much to Dad in his weakened state. Now, with Mom on one side of the bed and me on the other, we watched as he painstakingly removed the flaky substance from the surface with a nickel. Strangely, the longer Dad scratched, the more his hand seemed to be moving in slow motion, sending the three of us into a time warp: Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch [pause] Brush the flakes away [pause] Look at the number [pause] He followed the same routine five times. When he reached the sixth and final square, I knew from the quizzical expression that the ticket's markings no longer held meaning for him. I feared I would scream from the agony of loss that gripped me. Who was this man beside me? It couldn't be my father. Throughout my life I had been drawn to his analytical and creative mind and quick wit. As an architect, Dad had always depended on his keen mastery over numbers - - now numbers were only lines and squiggles on a page. Suddenly uncensored thoughts assaulted me: Dad's not going to want to live like this. If he's going to have to live like this, he's not going to like it at all. He's always been so sharp and quick, with lots of nervous energy. He is not going to want to live like this. He's not going to enjoy this at all. Please don't make him live long if he's going to live like this.
Yet as undisciplined as my mind was, it would not permit me to think the unthinkable: "I want my father to. . . ." At that instant my mother's eyes met mine. Her pained expression conveyed that we two were once again occupying the same psychic space.
Keeping up appearances for Dad was mentally and physically exhausting. In particular, smiling was a challenge when my natural inclination was to cry. But Mom and I could not let down our guards. We had made a pact that we'd help keep hope alive for Dad. Was this really a form of collusion? Certainly he couldn't believe he would actually recover. Yet, the night before, my mother insisted that we not shatter the illusion: Well, it's just my opinion, but I think he really believes he can get well. I've lived with him for thirty-five years, so I figure I know him. He's probably thinking, "Ah, there's always a chance. God maybe'll help me out. Maybe this is not my time to go. Maybe there will be a miracle."
We played the game until the end, but we'll never know for sure if we were playing it for Dad or with him. Perhaps he was putting on a good show for us.
In the early afternoon, Dan, a close friend of my parents, stopped in to visit bearing anniversary greetings. Dad was elated to see him. I had a hunch that he thought of Dan as a son. Besides, Dan could always find a way to make Dad laugh. Ironically, it was while my father was laughing that death finally slipped in. His smile changed to a grimace as he started gasping for air in staccato fashion. For the first time ever, I sensed that my father was afraid. As he continued to struggle for breath, his terror-filled eyes grew glassy, like two polished marbles in the eye sockets of an antique doll. Oh, God, we were losing him! My mother's anguished cries of "Bob! Bob!" flooded the room. Bewilderment showed on Dan's face; he mouthed words, but no sound came. Out of fear or perhaps respect, he hugged my mother affectionately then quickly departed. As Mom and I had anticipated, it would be just the two of us alone facing the inevitable.
There was no amount of rehearsal that could have prepared us for Dad's death. When the time finally came, we had to improvise. My initial reaction was panic. Instantly the room became a rotating blast furnace, elevating my body temperature as a wave of dizziness seized me. But I instinctively knew I needed to get help. Clumsily flinging open the door, I ran in the direction of the nurses' station, and upon arrival frantically blurted out my demands: "My father needs help. He can't breath. He needs oxygen. Please get him some oxygen. Hurry!" The nurse on duty calmly retrieved his chart and reviewed Dr. McCarthy's orders, then replied in an official tone, "Your father is not supposed to be given oxygen." I stared at her in astonishment as voices in my head screamed in rage: What? No oxygen? This is a hospital! Aren't they supposed to save lives here? How could they not give him oxygen, for Christ's sake? What in Hell is going on? In defeat, I raced back to Dad, hoping to be not be too late. From the time I was a child, my father had always been there for me. I wanted Dad to know that I had been there for him when death took his hand.
Upon reentering the room, I had an eerie sensation that I was stepping into one of Dad's watercolor paintings. Natural light illuminated the scene of my tearful mother tightly clasping my father's arm, as if she could squeeze life into his ravaged body. I was wrenched with fear that he had already left us. His eyes were closed and his skin had turned a freakish mustard yellow, no doubt from failing kidneys. The wasted frame before me appeared as if it would be consumed by the bulky hospital bed and web of tubing surrounding it. I could detect no movement of head or limbs. If not already dead, surely Dad was in a coma. Then I noticed his chest rising almost imperceptibly under the sterile sheet. A sigh of relief escaped me as I joined my parents and firmly grasped Dad's shoulder. This final family portrait remains etched in my being.
As Dad's breathing became more labored and raspy, the time separating breaths increased to frightening proportions. Whenever he exhaled, I felt myself struggling to draw air into his lungs for him. How long could he wait before taking another breath? Then I heard it - - the death rattle. This was really the end. On impulse, I leaned over and pressed my forehead against my father's. Exhaling with my father his last breath, I felt a surge of energy emanating from him and, at that same second, imagined his essence entering me. I did not know how I would use it, but I was sure that I would find out. Perhaps it contained secrets about the meaning of life.
Death was officially pronounced by Dr. McCarthy at 1:35 p.m. His words brought a certain finality. Then he left. His work was done. If he expressed his condolences on the way out, I don't remember. Once again, Mom and I were alone with Dad. It was time to say our last goodbyes.
Except for photographs, I would never see my father's face again. What a handsome face, even now. I recalled the many different expressions it could wear. And what a wonderful, wonderful man. I wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon telling Dad how this was so, but I knew my mother needed to be alone with him. I kissed my father on the cheek and whispered, "I love you, Daddy." Then backing away, I spotted his glasses on the nightstand. Carefully wrapping them in tissue for safekeeping, I tucked them in my purse. Perhaps one day when the time was right I might put on those glasses and fully appreciate the insights my father had shared with me over our lifetime together.
Now it was my mother's chance to say goodbye. An occasion to be dreaded yet to be treasured. Years later, she would recount for me the memories of her final moments with my father: Well, after you left me alone with him, I took and I hugged him and I kissed him, and I said, "I'm sorry we had to leave this way, but," I says, " you know I loved you, and you loved me, and we had our ups and downs, but we came through it pretty good." And I says, "Goodbye, I'm so glad I get to say goodbye to you." And then, with that, a nurse came in, and she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was in this room. I thought they had already taken him away." I said, "That's OK. It's time for me to go."
As Mom came through the doorway, I gazed at a woman whose life was now irreversibly altered. She was a survivor from a legal perspective. No longer Bob's wife, now she was just Flo. But not just Flo. She had shown so much courage and endurance in the past several days, past several years, past several decades. She had not only inherited the title survivor in the legal sense, she had earned it in the heroic sense. Certainly her newfound resilience and perseverance would help her stand up to future hardships.
The Important Parts
When we entered Patterson Memorial with Dad less than a week before, we knew the day would come when we'd be leaving him behind forever. Yet we were leaving only his flesh and blood behind. The important parts of him would still live on in us: his spirit, his love, our memories of him, and all his life teachings. As Mom and I exited the hospital arm-in-arm, just the two of us, one of Dad's lessons wafted its way into my thoughts, reminding me that I should never give up hope:
When I was a child,
my father taught me
that to hear a snowflake
fall to the ground
is to experience
God.
During the night, I awoke from a restless sleep as a luminescent glow filled the bedroom, the same glow I had seen that morning in the hospital. Slowly, an outline of Dad's upright body materialized beside my parents' bed. I softly tapped Mom's arm, then opened my eyes wide to take in this miraculous vision. Then my mother's erratic breathing pierced the silence to let me know that this was not a dream. Without making a sound, my father "spoke" to us: You will be OK. Hold on. Be strong. And take care of each other. Then he was gone. A sense of tranquility settled in. No words were exchanged between Mom and me. A tender squeeze of each other's hand was the only confirmation needed. We both knew Dad had been there with us to conclude this day of unconditional giving.
In memory of my father, Robert Novack, and in gratitude to my mother, Florence.
- Ellis, Carolyn. 1991. "Sociological introspection and emotional experience." Symbolic Interaction 14 (1): 23-50.
