My Dad's Last Summer
Photos above taken five months before he died.
By: Susan Deborah Schiller ~ Mini-Memoir Series
I hear his heart calling me. Even if he had a phone he wouldn’t be able to dial out. He is on life support, in Ann Arbor. My heart is palpitating.
It is Saturday morning, December 2, 1978 and our whole family is scheduled to visit Dad tomorrow. On Sundays we visit as a family. He’s been sick ever since we went on vacation last summer, so St. Joe’s is our second home.
I am trying to convince myself how illogical it is to visit him today. It’s a 45-minute drive on congested freeways, which to me is a big deal. I just learned how to drive. My brothers and sister want to stay home. I’m the oldest; I really should stay home with them, I think.
No matter how much I resist it, the thought is persistent. I feel an urgency to leave right away. I get into the bumble bee colored station wagon. Dad is so peculiarly safety conscious that all our vehicles are neon-colored, and the blazing yellow AMC Hornet certainly stands out in a crowd of cars.
I take the most direct route, highways and freeways all the way. I ride the elevator to ICU and walk into my dad’s darkened room. Mom is seated at a chair by his side. She’s surprised I’ve come but doesn’t tell me I’ve made a mistake. She doesn’t think it strange I left the other kids at home.
The machines are beeping and there’s a mass of tubes. “Dad’s asleep,” Mom says. “He’s in a coma and the tube in his mouth helps him to breathe.”
This is new. I’ve never seen anyone on life support, except on television. Why am I here? Dad can’t talk to me. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I should be back home, cooking and cleaning. Doing homework; studying for exams.
My mom is quiet. She is not saying a word. We both gaze at my dad, her husband and best friend. There’s a hazy glow around his face and his cheeks are the fullest I’ve seen since before he got sick. The undiagnosed monster has eaten most of his once strong and lean body and his skin is wrapped tightly around bones that conjure up pictures in my mind of Holocaust victims.
I focus on his face that appears to be beaming and a peace that is beyond understanding settles around me. “He’s going to be all right,” I just know in my heart.
There are no words spoken today. My dad has not really spoken to me since I was thirteen, when he told me, “I’m not going to spend much time with you anymore. It makes the other kids jealous. Let’s keep peace with everyone.”
I think back over all the things my dad and I did together, before that fateful day. He had shared his greatest joy with me, flying airplanes. I had learned how to fly and had my student pilot’s license before I got my driver’s license. But my dad wasn’t there, that day, for my solo flight.
It wasn't just missing my solo flight; it was pretty much everything. I missed talking and sharing our favorite things. I know he did his best and he always did what was safest and what seemed most right. But the wound in my heart never closed and the ensuing infection ate half of it away. Spiritual emaciation may be unseen but it leads to death just the same.
So he has to be all right. There are four whole years that we’ve barely spoken. How do I fill in the gap?
At the end of the day I leave and my mom still sits by his side. A few hours later, in the middle of the night, a nurse from St. Joe’s calls to let us know we have only a short time to say good-bye. It seems like we are all getting ready to leave in slow motion, as if we can deny death by staying home.
Maybe we can pretend that Dad will buzz our house, on his way home from flying corporate executives. We always knew to have dinner ready in 20-minutes when we heard the King Air or the DC3 shake the rooftop.
Will he never buzz us again? I really thought he was going to be all right!
At the hospital we are allowed to take turns in ICU, but before we know it he’s gone. The machines are still beeping and there’s no straight line. I think the movies lie. His muscles are twitching and I don’t want to huddle with everyone and cry. It can’t be over, I silently plead. I don't want this! There are so many words left unsaid.
A part of my heart is missing. The part that is most like my dad. The little girl who dreamed, sketched and painted, played classical music, loved photography, and read Dostoyevsky and enjoyed philosophy. We used to share all those things, he and I. I let the music and art die. I buried my talents and gifts, not long after he emotionally abandoned me. Something was wrong with me, but I didn't know what. Life went on, but half of me was left in a grave.
A girl needs her dad, no matter how old she is. Dad, I’m still your little girl, even though now I’m the same age you were when you died. I am choosing love today. I'm choosing life.
I'm coming alive again. I hike outdoors and take pictures, just like you did… studying plants and noticing the simple beauty in ordinary things. Remember when I wrote my first book just before you quit talking to me? I’m writing it again now, as a grown woman. Little by little I’m becoming the girl I used to be.
The best gift you’ve given me is silently calling me that day. I heard you and felt your heart’s cry. You knew you were passing and you understood many words were left unsaid. You showed me that love has a language all its own. It’s a language that transcends Time and Space. It bridges the gap between Heaven and earth.
I feel I hear your voice today, Dad, telling me you really did love me. I embrace the part of me that died in you. I love myself back to life. I love you, Dad!
Living the adventure and choosing love today,
Sue
PS I cried through a box of tissues in writing this story – a cleansing spiritual rain. It's not the first time I've told this story. It's not the first time I've written it. There are layers, it seems, of truth and love that – like medicine- need repeated doses. When you get near the root of your pain, whether it's the first rejection, the first abandonment, or a betrayal that blindsided you, it may take several rounds of medicine (truth and love) to mend that awkward missing gap in your heart. Give yourself time and ask for help, if you need it. A friend, a doctor, or a journal…
Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation. ~Graham Greene
If you want to learn more about writing a mini-memoir, or get help in sharing your story, I have a free e-course and registration is open!
Susan Schiller knows how it feels to lose everything: marriage and family, church and reputation, finances and businesses, and more. Susan's upcoming, interactive memoir, "On the Way Home," tells the story of how she came to be known as "the most abused woman" her counselors had yet met and how she learned to navigate her way out of hell to a rich and satisfying life. In her lifetime, Susan has served in duties ranging from home school mom – to pastor – to full-time deliverance minister – and to Midwest regional prayer coordinator for a large international ministry. These days you can usually find Susan soaking in her favorite hot springs pool, reading a book (or several), blogging, baking bread, or hanging out with her family and friends. You can get a free copy of Susan's upcoming book, "On the Way Home" by registering here.
Copyright 2010-2014, Susan Schiller, http://TeamFamilyOnline.com. For reprint permission for any private or commercial use, in any form of media, please contact Susan Schiller.
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