Take a mental picture! It'll last longer....

The yearly calendar that my mother would fill out for all of us, included important dates. The usual birthdays and anniversaries. But also the dates of the passing of our loved ones, and also their birthdays and how old they would be were they still with us on earth. I keep the calendar right next to my desk, since I'm a chronic forgetter of these important dates. I glanced down at it today and saw that today was the day my father passed in 2012. I summed up my courage to look back at some of my writings of the months leading up to his passing. I will re-post some of those feelings from my journal entry here today.

Daddy got diagnosed with cancer soon after this photo was taken. We were so privileged to have Mama and Daddy live with us, and that Daddy could pass from this life in the bedroom they had shared. Such a sacred time for our family.

June 4, 2011

Wyatt and Andrew are out of school for the summer and Eli has only one week left. Yesterday was Friday and I let Eli take the day off since Natalie and Taylor had a little carnival/fair in their neighborhood. I had Conrad take the boys to their house for the event. I gave him a $20 bill and told him to make certain he got Eli fed, because heaven forbid the child's blood sugar takes a nose-dive. (Heaven help us all!) Natalie texted me an hour later saying that Eli was starving and asked if he hadn't eaten any lunch. Conrad has had mono and no appetite, and so the "if I'm not hungry he must not be hungry" deal was obviously happening here. Natalie picked him up and fed them both. All the other boys had gone swimming with a friend.

Strange how it is with the business of motherhood. With the children all gone for a few hours, I really should have had time to re-paint the Sistine Chapel or some such thing. But to tell the truth, I think I almost forget how to function when I don't Have all of them either hovering around me or else all of them pummeling each other.

Cori, from Hospice, came over and Mama invited me to come downstairs and visit with her too. I had been asking my mother so many questions about Daddy that she felt I might as well get the information from the people that know best. It really hit me hard. It's not like I have been in denial, but I realized today that his body really is beginning to shut down. The lack of appetite, and sleeping all the time, are his body sending signals to him that it's okay to begin to withdraw. Cori explained that there will be no reason for him to experience any pain whatsoever because he is able to take as much pain-killer as is necessary to keep him very comfortable. He is extremely weak. Cori noticed that he was markedly weaker than when she was here just a couple of days earlier. Daddy lay on the couch the entire time we were visiting, and either slept while we were visiting or was simply not bothered in the least by our conversation. It was oddly comforting. She explained that we will be able to put a hospital bed in their living room any time now. And that Victor (the male nurse), can come daily to attend to Daddy's hygiene needs.

When we were done visiting, I walked Cori to the door and then went into the garage and sat on the wooden steps. I glanced over at Daddy's tools. I lost it. Just completely overcome with grief. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. It's never ever going to be a good time. No way. I'm not ready for him to not run to the garage for the "perfect tool" for whatever project is happening. And he will have three of the same tool most likely, because more than fixing things, he really enjoyed buying the tools to fix them with. And lending the tools out. Always lending. Who knows how many tools he's given away be default?! And now I'm wondering why I wasn't a better listener of his stories. One time my friend said to me, "Did you hear what your Dad just said?! The story he just told?" And I replied, "Oh he's told that story so many times, I don't even hear it anymore..." When my friend paraphrased it back to me, I was completely stunned.

Daddy always had the right tool for a neighbor to borrow, (sometimes several of the same kind, because he hated returning things to a store, even if they were unopened)

I suppose it's sort of like the time I was watching Daddy walk Bronson home from the bus-stop. Every school-day for the whole Kindergarten school year, Daddy would tell Ellie to "Go get your leash!", and if it were chilly outside he'd put on his coat and gloves and have me put Ellie's little doggie-coat on her too. Together man and dog would walk down to the bus-stop and wait for the child. Bronson would hop off the bus, and the three of them would slowly walk home. Grandpa would ask Bronson what he'd learned that day, and everyday he'd get the same answer. "I don't know." My dad would chuckle, and repeat that same story to me every day.

One day I was standing on the porch, leaning against the stone pillar watching them walk home. I had the thought of what a beautiful picture this was. My aging father holding the puppy's leash in one hand and holding my littlest boy's hand in his other. I had the fleeting thought that I really should run in and grab the camera to freeze this moment in time. But I just couldn't peel myself away from the beauty happening before me. I was too afraid that if I turned my back even for one brief second it would be over and I'd lose that feeling I was having. So I didn't go in. I stood there. I took a picture with my heart. It is burned on it never to be removed.

I won't feel bad that I didn't grab the camera that day. It's a sacred memory that no picture would ever be able to do justice anyway. So last night I sat on the steps of the garage and just wept. Because it's really never going to be a good time to lose my Daddy. Bronson came down with croup a couple of days ago, and I was thrown back in time to one of my earliest memories. I was probably around three years old, and I woke up with that undeniable "bark cough" that comes with croup. My voice gone and unable to cry out for them, I ran into my parents bedroom and climbed up on their bed and jumped on it to wake them up. I felt like every time I coughed, I couldn't breathe. And I was in a complete panic. My parents put a pot of water on the stove to boil and held me over the steam. They sang "Mary had a little lamb", to try and distract me from the fact that I was upset over being held over a pot of steaming water. Neither the water or the song were doing a thing to make the barking cough stop. We lived so far away from town, so my mother called the closest neighbor and borrowed a humidifier from them. They then made a tent out of blankets tucked under the mattress of my sister's top bund bed and draped it down and over the humidifier. I climbed into bed and then Daddy climbed in next to me and held me throughout the night. I was safe. And I got well.

Now I watch him as he lies in his bed. And I can't put a humidifier next to him to stop the cancer, or to stop the aging process. I can only run my hand across his white hair and kiss his soft wrinkled hollowed cheek. And have gratitude. He isn't a perfect man. He's made mistakes like all normal humans have. None of them tragic. But he is a wonderful man, and he has done his best. He's been the perfect father for me. I can only hope and pray that my children will feel the same about me someday. There are moments that just cannot be documented on film. Only on the heart.

My wish is that every child in the world feel a father's love the way I do.

The first moment your parent holds your own child.

Grandpa gave the BEST hugs.

He most likely had five of the same rake ;)

One of my favorite pictures. He loved swimming, and I love seeing his pretty straight fingers and the gold in his teeth. A family joke about his gold teeth for years!