playing our song together.
May 2000
Help me?my father had recently once been able to proclaim. Just help me!? But what could I do? My father had been diagnosed with a terminal illness the season before and he lay there in our house on the hospice bed in total pain. Last year, he had surgery after surgery and made ample visits to top doctors in Detroit. They even removed his left lung. He had been diagnosed with an extremely rare cancer. Someone had told me that this cancer, mesothylioma, leads to one of the most painful deaths.
It all began thirty-some years ago. As a boy, Harold grew up in a poor family with three sisters and a brother. Harold had been blessed with many things. He was a very bright man. Although he wasnt particularly driven as a teenager to strive hard in school, losing his mother at the age of eleven, he still managed to score high in high school tests. Complicated mathematical puzzles were just plain easy for him and was awarded a regents scholarship from New York State. He still needed a summer job to pay for the rest of college. Harold decided to get a job as a construction worker. He helped put up dry wall, lay pipes, do all the little jobs, and even twelve years ago he put in tile for our familys kitchen floor. Now, it was thirty years later, and he glaringly discovered, most of those activities had been harmful to him. Insulation used in these drywalls and tiles contained a toxic substance called asbestos. He had not been informed that breathing in this dust particles of asbestos and along with getting a polio shot, would have him lying helpless some thirty years later.
Coming back from college to see my father so sick and helpless was not easy at all for me. Little did I realize that I would only enjoy five days with him. I watched him carefully everyday to make sure I got to look deeply into his eyes. I had bought him a chess set for Christmas, but he was too ill and drained to play it with me. He still tried. He thought it was the greatest present ever. I also bought him slippers to keep his toes warm. He couldnt wear them, however, because his poor feet were swollen immensely. He constantly changed where he rested. Sometimes on the big leather chair, other times he went to the couch to lie on his right side. And then there were other times we had to help him to the bed. I was so scared he would fall, but he was so strong. He usually slept during the days, which was very inconvenient for the family. At night, he would be wide-awake, trying to get out of his bed by himself, for reasons unclear. Sometimes when I kept watch over him, I was so afraid I wouldnt wake up when he needed me. Every night, at least two of us would stay in the living room with him. The whole family was so exhausted.
Some nights were worse than others. He was on lots of medication; codeine and morphine were the two I can recall. He didnt want to eat anything, for his body was winding down, but he liked his water. We served him water through a straw, and he didnt speak hardly at all. Sometimes he would say enough? I felt so bad for him. I talked to him a lot. I learned the symptoms people go through when they are dying. I knew sound would be one of the last things to fail him. His limbs were cold, and he was deathly skinny. I think he weighed less than me. Harolds jaw dropped slightly open, and his eyelids were slit. The apparatus giving him oxygen to breath was quite cumbersome and discomforting. Sometimes he took it out, but most of the time he had to have it in. The social workers that came to visit could not believe that he was still alive. Every time they visited, they would state, he might have only this evening or tonight.?
The night before Christmas, no visions of sugarplums danced in my head. The worker had said he didnt have a pulse, and they didnt expect him to make it to Christmas. I kept asking my mom, How long do you think??. I felt so bad for pondering, yet that question always raced through my mind. Harold fooled the doctors, he fooled everyone. He lasted to Christmas and beyond. December 27 was the scariest night. He looked so out of it, he no longer spoke. Previous days he asked weird questions like, Do I have my license? I need my license. We always assured him that he had everything taken care of, and there was nothing left undone. One time as I sat beside his bed looking at him, he startled me as he popped his eyes open at me and said, Do you know??and I responded, No dad, I dont know. Mom, do you know?? On Tuesday, my sister and I were talking and he wanted to know what was playing at the movies. I love my dad, he was so special.
Of course, I cried a bunch, almost every half an hour. When he said he wasnt going to make it, or he didnt think he was going to make it, all of us simply said, Dont worry, its ok to let go, well be fine. We said that in a confident tone, and though he didnt notice, my mother and I would look at each other with a wrinkled face expression and quietly cry. He couldnt seem to let go of us. Make sure you look after one another,?was one of the longest and most meaningful statement he shared on his final days. That last morning, he was really bad and they rushed him to Hospice of Dayton. Once again, they all thought he wouldnt survive the ride. He made it to 2:20 that evening. That is when all his organs gave out on him, and when the phlegm and mucus came up to choke him. My mother screamed, well cried, then went home.
***
You were a sports enthusiast, an ardent observant, and a competitive participant. As a child, I remember you getting me involved in beneficial things, and distracting me from damaging actions. You coached almost all the sports he got me involved in. I got to play soccer, basketball, softball, and ended up running track and cross-country late into high school, all because you held me on your pedistal. To this day, you made me proud of my accomplishments, and you were proud of me. You taught me the importance of school, although you werent the kind of parent that pushed me too hard. No matter what, you took time out of relaxing from your hard day at work to help me, especially with mathematics and sciences. You never told me who to hang out with or not to. He never gossiped or talked about my boyfriends in a derogatory sense. To this day, my mom tells me that all you mentioned about past relationships was,
She can do better. ***
Harold watched over me even when I didnt know he was. To this day, I can safely say that we had our special connection. We liked playing cards, athletic competition, and had some of the same philosophies. Harold also had a fine wit. His sense of humor was evident even when he was ill.
All in all, my fathers death has been the most significant event of my life. I will always remember where my father has come from, what happened on those cold December nights, and the impact he has had on my life. His wonderful qualities I will always admire and cherish. He was the best of all of us. Anyone who knew Harold knew he was a kind, sensitive, modest, quiet, gentle and loving soul who expected nothing in return. As my father, he was neither critical, judgmental nor threatening. I could always depend on his deep unconditional love. Our family will always be witnesses to the importance of his life. The memories of Harold are part of who and what I am. Sometimes before I go to bed, I pray to God that he is in a better place. He has to be. Other times I lie there and cry and hope someone else will be able to guide me in the right directions but not overpower me with their ideas. That is my father had been to me. I will miss him dearly.
By Karen Ober Jan 2001.
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playing our song together.
May 2000