“You can go in now” It felt as
though the words had come from inside me, like a thought instead of a
sound. Time has a nearly infinite elasticity when you are waiting for
something as rare as your last moments with someone you love and time
for me had stretched to the point my consciousness had slipped
through. Then the nurse stepped into my peripheral vision as I sat on
the floor in the hallway. Her face was filled with compassion and
graced with a gentle smile. She held her hand out towards the open
door as if to welcome me. I could go in now. So I gathered my self
together.
My Dad seemed to be asleep. I quietly
took my place beside him and watched the machines do their work. And
I watched the clock. Time on this side of the wall was much
different. There is nothing as horrifying as having one irreplaceable
second after another stripped away from you as the thin red hand on a
clock circles. Not when your are just old enough to know what death
is and not old enough help anyone do it. “Why are you in such a
hurry?” my father asked. With this simple question juxtaposed with
the horror I felt in our time's passage I was instantly transported
back to another night.
My Dad had just gotten home from
another emergency trip to the hospital. He cornered me in my bedroom
and accused me of hearing his cries of pain and ignoring them. He
said I wanted him dead. He was wrong. I wanted him to be well again.
I wanted to play chess again. I wanted to go shooting again. I wanted
to go fishing. I wanted to hear him read Shakespeare out loud. I
wanted to talk about science. I wanted to have the peace, and safety,
and completeness of having my Dad by my side. There was so much I
wanted to say but all I could offer him in this moment was silence,
and innocence. Eventually he left me alone in my room with all of
that to want and no one to hold. But, I was four years older and had
gained enough experience to meet what I felt was a harsh accusation
with the simple truth. “I'm only supposed to be in here twenty
minutes at a time.” Just then the same nurse came in the room with
a fresh blanket saying “Take all the time you need.” And with
those simple and profound words the spell was broken, my horror faded
and my Dad and I passed a couple of hours talking easily to one
another until he was too tired to go on and I left him to sleep.
His question and my reaction to it has
clung to my life for the three decades since his death. It devoured
me slowly and nearly completely. After my Mother's death the loss of
her part of my Father's story made the memories of all the bad times
more poignant and predominant. Her narrative had sweetness and
memories of light my Dad had inside him. Without that point of view
to help guide me I sank into the evil of the wretched, premature end
of someone I love and need. Loss had become part of how I viewed my
world to the point there was no taste, no scent, no sound of anything
I once held dear. There was only longing and anger. Grief was like a
filter on a camera lens, unnoticeable except for the resulting image;
skewed reality. Finally, during a reliving of my experience in the
hospital I realized what was happening, that this pain was literally
killing me and with the help of people I love I found a way out of the spiral.
This week I have come to say farewell
the third man I have loved the way you should love a Father, Dr. Ulysses Gonzalez. He was a great man that lead a long life and died
surrounded by Family. I will miss him very much, many people will,
and his death should not be mourned but life without him will be. My
role in the ceremonies is singular, to be here when my Wife needs
me. The quiet within this simple duty has offered me a precious
moment of clarity. My Dad was really hoping to hear that I had
friends waiting for me. He wanted to hear that I had something
important to do or something fun. That I had to go to work to help
support the Family. He wanted to hear that the things were in place
that would give my life meaning and joy. He wanted to hear that he
had accomplished something very important by creating a whole person
strong enough to carry on with out him. In this moment I miss him
more than ever, and more than ever at peace with his absence.
I see now that having a great number of
days in my life may not offer me a chance to pass from this life with
all conflicts resolved and a loving legacy. The quantity of my days
is not what I can control, my only chance is what I do with the time
I have left. If I want to die well I
must live well. I must work joyfully to create the world I
want and accept the world that exists. I must guard the health of my
body, and my mind, and my soul. I want to teach Ella how to play
chess. I want be a friend to as many people as I can. I must paint.
I want to laugh, a lot. I want to hear every word my Wife and
Daughter have to say and take them to heart and make them part of me.
I must learn to offer all my thoughts as expression of joy. Most of
all I must learn to face my fear without anger as a shield, because
when death comes I want to go smiling.
