no more i love yous
Jun. 29th, 2007 08:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehefnerI've heard about dogs who are old or sick, that just before they die, have one last burst of energy. They become lively, excited. They become puppies again. Mom said this happens to people too.
Last night, Nita visited him just before I did, and said he felt like he was getting better, that he was much brighter than usual. The past few days I've seen him, as I've been visiting him daily since last Friday, his looks started to change. It was like his lips had shrunk back on his face, his jagged, crooked teeth exposed, as his mouth hung open like an incomplete mummy.
I could barely look at him, couldn't even manage to give him the standard rundown of what's going on in my life. I just dove right in and read him some Dave Barry or "Jeeves and Wooster," as he liked. At least, I thought he liked it, but he stopped reacting some time ago. I'm not certain he even understood me half the time, between the machines and--let's face it-- my own jumbled, slurring, stuttering, rapid-fire speech. I guess he just liked having me there, talking to him. But he didn't look it.
Last night, his lips were back to normal, the teeth no longer bared. But regardless of what Nita saw or thought she saw, I couldn't detect any improvement. I just went ahead, reading Dave Barry and getting more uncomfortable as good ol' Dave mentioned things "gin and tonic" and "cancer" and "old dying people" and "tumor the size of an eggplant." I really should have pre-screened what I was going to read to him. But again, he barely seemed to be paying attention. His lids half-closed, his eyes almost rolling back. The only time he showed any life or interest was when I told him that my car was running okay. He's obsessed with the welfare of my car, always has been.
A month ago, and for the first time in years, I told Dad that I loved him. I am extremely fortunate that the very last thing we said to one another, back when he could say anything, was "I love you." Problem was, he wanted me to say it again every time I left from one of my visits, and it wasn't as genuine since. It felt forced, called on cue, "kay, thx, luv you!" With Dad, I never wanted to say it unless I really meant it, unless I was moved to say it. And while that love is always in my heart (try as I might to deny it, at times), there's a reason why I hadn't been able to tell him for years.
I just thought it was more examples of behavior from a man who didn't care if I sat in my room all day, playing Sega CD (yes, I was that guy) or watching movies alone. All that mattered was that I was there. I was in his presence. I was in his possession.
This is a man who had an absolutely gorgeous antique piano in his living room. The piano's been covered by a faded yellow sheet for over twelve years, with a little index card on top that reads, "DO NOT PLACE ANYTHING ON PIANO!!!" Mom was perhaps the last person to play it, and even then, I can't imagine he was too happy about that. All that mattered was that he had the piano. Playing it, or even seeing it, didn't matter to him so much as owning it and protecting it.
And so I thought that's what his insistence at the "I love you"s at every parting was: just another example of control, another example of his favorite game of Love Upon Command. And maybe it still was.
But now, I can't help but think that, if I were in that situation, bitter and scared and grasping at hope--never mind that this is a man who's locked himself in a house and passively aggressively waited to die for years now-- you'd want the last words from your son to be "I Love You," even said in rote, because they might be the last words we'd ever get.
Last night, he made the effort to tell me that he loved me first. He mouthed the words, wheezing through the tracheotomy, but I understood. I told him I loved him, and the words came out more sincerely and more heartfelt than they had in a month. And then I was gone.
Not long after that, he was too.
Last night, Nita visited him just before I did, and said he felt like he was getting better, that he was much brighter than usual. The past few days I've seen him, as I've been visiting him daily since last Friday, his looks started to change. It was like his lips had shrunk back on his face, his jagged, crooked teeth exposed, as his mouth hung open like an incomplete mummy.
I could barely look at him, couldn't even manage to give him the standard rundown of what's going on in my life. I just dove right in and read him some Dave Barry or "Jeeves and Wooster," as he liked. At least, I thought he liked it, but he stopped reacting some time ago. I'm not certain he even understood me half the time, between the machines and--let's face it-- my own jumbled, slurring, stuttering, rapid-fire speech. I guess he just liked having me there, talking to him. But he didn't look it.
Last night, his lips were back to normal, the teeth no longer bared. But regardless of what Nita saw or thought she saw, I couldn't detect any improvement. I just went ahead, reading Dave Barry and getting more uncomfortable as good ol' Dave mentioned things "gin and tonic" and "cancer" and "old dying people" and "tumor the size of an eggplant." I really should have pre-screened what I was going to read to him. But again, he barely seemed to be paying attention. His lids half-closed, his eyes almost rolling back. The only time he showed any life or interest was when I told him that my car was running okay. He's obsessed with the welfare of my car, always has been.
A month ago, and for the first time in years, I told Dad that I loved him. I am extremely fortunate that the very last thing we said to one another, back when he could say anything, was "I love you." Problem was, he wanted me to say it again every time I left from one of my visits, and it wasn't as genuine since. It felt forced, called on cue, "kay, thx, luv you!" With Dad, I never wanted to say it unless I really meant it, unless I was moved to say it. And while that love is always in my heart (try as I might to deny it, at times), there's a reason why I hadn't been able to tell him for years.
I just thought it was more examples of behavior from a man who didn't care if I sat in my room all day, playing Sega CD (yes, I was that guy) or watching movies alone. All that mattered was that I was there. I was in his presence. I was in his possession.
This is a man who had an absolutely gorgeous antique piano in his living room. The piano's been covered by a faded yellow sheet for over twelve years, with a little index card on top that reads, "DO NOT PLACE ANYTHING ON PIANO!!!" Mom was perhaps the last person to play it, and even then, I can't imagine he was too happy about that. All that mattered was that he had the piano. Playing it, or even seeing it, didn't matter to him so much as owning it and protecting it.
And so I thought that's what his insistence at the "I love you"s at every parting was: just another example of control, another example of his favorite game of Love Upon Command. And maybe it still was.
But now, I can't help but think that, if I were in that situation, bitter and scared and grasping at hope--never mind that this is a man who's locked himself in a house and passively aggressively waited to die for years now-- you'd want the last words from your son to be "I Love You," even said in rote, because they might be the last words we'd ever get.
Last night, he made the effort to tell me that he loved me first. He mouthed the words, wheezing through the tracheotomy, but I understood. I told him I loved him, and the words came out more sincerely and more heartfelt than they had in a month. And then I was gone.
Not long after that, he was too.
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-29 02:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-29 04:34 pm (UTC)A word of advice:
Date: 2007-07-01 10:15 am (UTC)Oddly, my dad (who took me to see ST2) always wanted (and thusly got) a piper to play AMAZING GRACE at his funeral.