I always figured my father would go down in a blaze of glory, perhaps a fiery car accident because of his penchant for driving far too aggressively, or hell, even in a fight. This was, after all, the man who went toe-to-toe with a guy 20 years younger than him at a Spangles.
But, life rarely works out as expected. Today marks seven years since the old man went to the other side of the rainbow, mercifully bringing to an end months of pain, anger, grief, sadness and any other emotion you can attach to the bitch of a disease that is cancer.
Not long after he died, I wrote that I anticipated thinking about him every day for the rest of my life. What I didn’t realize is just how much I would. Several times a day, there are moments (songs, sights, words, you name it) that remind me of him. I like to think he’s checking in, making sure his boys are OK.
Most of the memories are great ones. They’re of craft shows all over the Midwest, meeting hundreds of characters who have nurtured my love for telling stories. They’re of fishing and hunting trips in the Ozarks and on Dragoon Creek in Northeast Kansas. They’re of football games, Little League, Christmas and thousands of other wonderful little journeys.
One of the few good memories around the time Dad passed away is of the three weeks I stayed with my brother’s family as the old man faded. Even though we were all grieving, we spent the evenings watching movies, drinking cocktails and eating way too many ice cream drumsticks.
There were lots of laughs – and tears – as we made up for lost time … while we’ve always been close, we were busy with life/family and didn’t hang out as often as we had in the past. I like to think this was one of the old man’s final gifts to the people he loved the most.
Those memories help every Aug. 5, but the sting is still there. It’s a day I’ll remember the rest of my life. I actually got more than three hours of sleep that day because Dad couldn’t get up anymore. In fact, he couldn’t do much of anything. He was there, but not really.
I woke up in the recliner I’d been sleeping in for weeks at about 10 a.m. It was warm, but not insanely hot like it typically is at that time of year in Kansas. I checked on the old man, as I did every morning. It wasn’t pleasant. The death rattle was on its second day. It’s a genuinely awful sound that instills hopelessness. His eyes were open, but distant. His mouth, as it had been for two days, was open.
A little before noon, I sensed he was close. I asked my sister-in-law, whose care for my father during this time is something for which I’ll always be grateful, to come to his room. I held one hand, and she held the other.
I managed to muster the strength to say, “Dad, if you want to go, it’s OK” without my voice cracking. Tricia stroked his hand and said the same, but in a tone only mothers know. In my father’s last true moment of clarity, his eyes shifted to her.
“Ernie Bill (my very Ozark nickname growing up), can you please open the window in the bathroom?” she said.
Believing this would allow his soul to leave the house and drift to Heaven, I scrambled to the bathroom and opened the window a bit. By the time I got back to his bed, my father was taking his last breath.
The tears flowed, of course. I said a prayer. The rest of the day is a blur. There are few things more heartbreaking than seeing a loved one covered and carted out. Again, not a day of great memories.
My wife and daughter arrived not long after, hugging me tightly. Within a few hours of the old man moving on, I was in my car and on the way back home for the first time in weeks. I was hungry and comforted myself with food – a terrible meal from Taco Bell.
By 3 p.m., I was in my bed, in disbelief. I was out like a light, waking up a couple of hours later. My only thought when I emerged from a well-needed slumber: “Wow, he’s really gone.”
“GOODBYE, BUTTERFLY: MURDER, FAITH AND FORGIVENESS IN A SMALL KANSAS TOWN”