Milestone

At the risk of casting a shadow on the Memorial Day weekend, today marks a rather somber milestone for me. Five years ago today my father passed away. There's something rather finite about five years, then ten years and so on. The truth is, I still can't believe he's gone.

I haven't written much about my Dad here and I still can't because I'm still not ready to do so. His passing still feels raw to me. For the past two years on the occasion of his birthday, I have sat down at the keyboard to give his well earned due but I can't do him justice. Yet. It still feels too painful.

Five years ago today, he was in the hospital. I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area then. He had been on a steady decline with lung cancer, emphysema and COPD and was in the critical care unit. Five days previous, he had taken a bad turn and we were in fear of losing him but he was a tough fellow and he rallied. On the 23rd, a glorious sunny Friday, Marv and I had planned to drive together to spend the day with him. Curiously, I remember I took a vacation day off work so I could enjoy a guilt free day with him. We leisurely drove to the hospital and breezed into the critical care unit. It was 10 am. His doctor rushed to us the minute we walked in. Her face was ashen. That was a horrifying moment.

He had taken a very bad turn overnight and was on life support. I tried to digest this information as she talked about my Dad's medical proxy that he had signed when he entered the hospital. Now, my Dad was a very pragmatic man and did not suffer bullshit from anyone. Years before, he had given both my brother and me copies of his Living Will which clearly indicated that he did not want to be kept alive by artificial means. Before he went into the hospital, he purposely reviewed this with me in no uncertain terms. And now the doctor was essentially asking me if I was willing to pull the proverbial plug. It's not as easy a choice as it would seem.

We asked for some time. My brother and I went outside, out into the fresh May air and found a secluded place to talk. We called my mother who was home in bed with a cold (and thereby not allowed to come into the critical care unit). Even though she and Dad were divorced, they had been married for 37 years and were still deeply close friends. She was distraught, as you can imagine, and I listened to her crying while I paced a tidy row of lush blooming rosebushes along the parameter of the building. It's so strange what you remember sometimes.

Of course we knew what we had to do. As a family we knew we'd have to honor what Dad wanted. We went back into the critical care unit. The doctor was waiting for us, the forms hanging from a clipboard in her grasp. At this point Marv deferred to me (as apparently my mother had done). The foreman in this decision, this choice for this very final decision for the end of Dad's life, had been delegated to me weeks ago.

I had been very controlled to that moment. I took the clipboard. The doctor showed me where I needed to sign. I took the pen and then I paused and asked, "Are you sure, beyond a reason of any doubt in your total years of clinical experience, that my dad will not regain consciousness?" She nodded gravely. I continued, "And did you get a second opinion?" She nodded and indicated a second and third signature on the evaluation form. Still stoic, I said, "Because if I find out you are wrong and I don't know how but if I do, I will hunt you down and kill you." She nodded gently, understanding the situation. God help me, I did say that but I do know she understands the stress of these moments. I was dragging this out because I dreaded being the person who signed (as I saw it then) my father's death warrant.

I signed. She ushered us into my Dad's room. He lay in his bed unconscious and hooked up to a respirator. Sun streamed into the room. There was a potted orange kalanchoe plant that I had brought him to liven up his room and it seemed to vibrate with color. The attendants removed the respirator and then catlike, exited slowly and silently from the room, shutting the door behind them. Marv and I gathered around Dad. We put our arms around him. We talked to him. We watched the monitor track his declining heart rate. And at 11:26 am, he died.

It was the very thing in my life that I dreaded the most and here it was upon me. Marv and I were both numb. Moments after he expired, attendants came to the room and started the process of their next steps. I immediately whipped out my cell phone to call my mom. The nurse started to chastise my using the cell phone, but stopped and said, "Go ahead, honey." It was awful telling my mother. She wailed. It broke my heart.

We collected his possessions. We kissed him good-bye. We worked out the mortuary arrangements. And then we left. I was still reasonable stoic. We drove to Dad's house. And then once safely inside his house, God help me, I completely broke down. I had an outright collapse. I was glad I was with my brother though he was not much better than I was. At least we had each other.

In the end, I didn't know what funeral expectations my dad had. On the same horrible day, I scoured his office for some kind of sign and soon enough I had it--I found a yellow post-it note stuck to another piece of paper. On it, in his distinctive script, said the following, "No funeral--memorial service." That I can do. And I did.

We had a fabulous memorial party for Dad a few weeks later in our hometown of Fresno, California. It was a glorious night. Dad's ashes, contained in a mahogany urn, held center stage. We distributed a bit of Dad's ashes in Fresno and some in the ocean in Pebble Beach but the balance of Dad is still with me. The urn sits on my shelf of my living room.

I remember the events of that day in minute to minute, crystal clear detail. Y'all know I have selective memory on a regular day but every second of that day is etched on my memory like an X-Ray.

My Dad was like no one else. He was the classically maternal parent (despite his no bullshit policy). And Jesus, I miss him every single day.