Letter to Dad, #2

Dad, was that you by the tree stump today?
That bunny is camouflaged really well, said Figgy,
who noticed the chub rabbit first.
That's Grandpa, you know, I said. Yep, she said.

Dear Dad,


I keep remembering how you looked the morning of March 9. The doctor, or resident--who called to say they tried all they could but you expired [his word], though peacefully--said I could come to see you right away. 


After I called Sis, H. and I drove over to Mountainside Hospital. I was still in my skirt and blouse from the night before. You had that respirator tube in your mouth, the one they had inserted during the night, honoring your previously stated wishes. It was so strange. You looked alive. H. and I had to touch you to be sure you weren't breathing. 


I lifted the sheet and looked at your feet. I'd known them since I was a girl, when we went to the beach--Rockaway, Nauset Light, Coast Guard, Jones. When we were leaving to go home, you would use your shirt to swipe the dry sand off before putting your shoes back on. They were old beat-up black shoes, without the laces. You didn't wear sandals. And while we swam, you left your wallet and keys in a shoe on the sand.


I would have stayed longer the night of March 8 had I known it was your last night. Why didn't I? I stayed pretty late. But now I think I should have just spent the night, to ease your passage into death. To hold your hand, or snore beside you. To keep you company, so you would not be alone. I should have just gone to sleep in the chair next to you. To talk to you about how you felt. You were finally starting to calm down and get a little rest--some pain was subsiding--and I said I better go, or I'll fall asleep right in this chair. I was concerned about getting home to Figgy, and about walking alone to my car on a dark street a couple of blocks from the hospital. I hadn't been able to find a space nearby and was too cheap to go to the parking garage.


Go ahead, you said, with a slight shrug of your left shoulder, the one near my chair. Take a nap. It was hard for you to get the words out. Your voice was croaky and raspy. Everything was an effort by then--breathing, pumping your heart, talking, lying down, rolling over.


I better go, I think I said. I parked far away and have to walk to my car. 


So go, you said. You were always worried about our safety. When Sissy was away at college and there was a rape reported on the all-girls campus, Mommy clipped the article out of The Record before you read it, because she knew you'd worry so much.


I love you, Dad, I said. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night.  


I know you knew how much we all loved you, and how much you meant to us, but still, I feel badly that I did not foresee that that was your last night. I wish I had stayed by your side.


Then again, if I had, it might have been harder for you to go peacefully. I may have tugged you one way while the angels tugged another. Don't take him, I might have said. Can't he have a little longer?


I miss you so much. There's a big hole in my world. But I trust that you are no longer suffering--maybe frolicking among the clouds. Maybe you feel healthy and strong, like when you were a young man.


We saw two fat bunnies today and thought of you again.


Love always,
Al

TCOY

1. Starbucks tall cappuccino.
2. Boot camp.
3. Warm lemon-rosemary rotisserie chicken when ravenous lunch hunger struck [bought readymade].
4. Walked Sug around block.
5. Homemade mashed potatoes [couple big spoonfuls] and steamed broccoli.
6. Peeled a ton of pears and apples with Figgy to make fresh fruit crisps, one for her to take to a group lunch tomorrow. It was fun to talk while the peels fell in long ribbons.