I wrote this story this morning, the day after the third anniversary of my father’s death. For those remaining , sometimes the “first day” is what is life changing. And I would say to you, “Please, don’t smoke.” THE AFTERMATH Three years ago this morning I woke up in my mother’s bed. It was the place my father always slept. On this morning the house was quiet and strange. For the first time in more years than I can remember the pumping of the oxygen concentrator was stilled. We’d turned it off last night. Silence can be very loud. Mom and I moved in slow motion to the kitchen. The first thing on my list was to make arrangements with Hospice to come and collect Dad’s bed and the other temporary items they had provided three months earlier. Then, we made a pot of coffee. A little bit of life as usual. My tendency, to protect Mother, would be to rush into Dad’s room, his sanctuary, and rearrange everything so she didn’t see him there when she had to walk in. I am my father’s child…I take care of the details. And, this morning, I did neutralize some personal things for both our sakes. But not everything. Not yet. Three months earlier I’d stripped his “office” to make room for him when he came home with Hospice care. We hauled out truckloads of his treasures, which were really old catalogs and magazines he just couldn’t let go – remnants of a career lost to the soldiers. But this was his sanctuary, his nest, the place he felt most safe and important. His mind was still good; it was his body the soldiers had destroyed. So I left much of his nest and this is where he’d sit for the rest of his life. He only gave in to the Hospice bed in his last hours. His nest is where I’d find him each time I went in, saying, “Hey, Daddy-O.” And he’d reply, “Hey, Leslie-O.” How much that memory was to mean to me came later. On that morning, his nest took on a different meaning. It became art. I didn’t sweep in and organize or eliminate his stuff. I knew I had to, and of course I would, but I treasured it for a while longer. Once it was all gone, it would be gone forever and memory would surely fade. So I took pictures. Every detail. I might never look at those pictures, but I knew if I didn’t capture them, the opportunity would be gone forever. Everything just as he’d left it. Then there was that drawing board. It was the small one since the big one that had always graced our family room had to be replaced with the Hospice bed. Thanks to the soldiers. It was more difficult than I expected when it was time to dismantle that last drawing board. As I studied it, I saw the last piece of his architecture he’d ever do – unfinished. On that sheet lay his favorite mechanical pencil, his rulers and templates, masking tape, hand written notes, and my undoing: his glasses. This vision was now his life as art, and someday, somehow, I vow to paint this picture. But the reality of Dad’s life, and death, would be incomplete if I didn’t add one thing into that picture. An ashtray. No, it wasn’t in that final picture of his life, but it was the thing we always knew would be his undoing. So it belonged there if the story in the picture was to be true. And in the ashtray would be as many little tan soldiers standing in rows as he could fit. Somehow he liked that order so he didn’t empty it often, just kept adding to his troops. See, Dad was an architect and engineer of extraordinary ability. So the little tan soldiers had to fit just right. And so they did. The soldiers finally won when his body gave way to them. His mind was sharp so somehow God’s grace let him slip quickly into unconsciousness before fear set it. Our hearts and minds have to believe this. So Dad is gone. He is missed. Mom’s routine is her own now and each morning she has that quiet cup of coffee and talks to him – just like they did before the little tan cigarette soldiers stole his life. I will paint that picture someday. And I’ll get a chest X-ray every year for the rest of my life.
Posted on: Fri, 27 Sep 2013 17:34:18 +0000
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