Hiccough

Hiccough, Hiccough, Hiccough. Pause. Hiccough, Hiccough, Hiccough, pause.

What was that sound?

I’d been counting breaths for months. Weeks. Days. Hours. They’d gone from 20, to 18, to 14, to 12.

My sister said she wanted to be there. Make sure I call her immediately. She wanted to be there.

My brother flew in from out of town. He wanted to be there. Make sure I wake him.

My mother gave a kiss good night and said be sure to wake her. She wanted to be there.

I was the only one who said I did not want to be there. I told him I would take him to the finish line, but I would not help him cross.

We would stay up late at night and I would ask, “Tell me something?”

And my dad would be annoyed or confused or just plain tired. He would say, he didn’t have anything to say. He wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t already know or he didn’t know anything I didn’t already need to know. He didn’t think he was in the position to be giving advice or telling me what to do. He would say he wasn’t the smartest man in the room, but he knew a lot about a lot of things. He wanted me to do things for myself and all I wanted was for him to give me all the information he had inside his head so I would know what to do for the rest of my life.

I was eighteen when I got my first speeding ticket. Dad brought home this handy little chart. He handed it to me. He didn’t say a word. He just handed it to me. It showed that for every five or ten miles over the speed limit you drove you actually only shaved about a minute or two off your three or four hour drive or something ridiculous like that. It was very enlightening and just what I needed to see. He later asked me if I had taken a look and what I thought about it. I thanked him and told him it made sense. I have often referenced that visual with friends and my own daughters. I told him about this; he didn’t even remember giving it to me. But I thanked him anyway. I’ve only gotten one other speeding ticket in all the years since then; those darn cameras in the construction zones!

“Are you leaving?” my dad asks me and my heart sinks.

“Yeah, Grapes, but just for a few days, I’ll be back soon.”

His sky blue eyes look back at me from the hospital bed in the living room that has suddenly turned into his bedroom. He tells me to keep it under 100 and we both laugh knowing that I drive like an old lady with glaucoma. Especially as I am always sobbing as I leave him and mom never knowing if he will be still with us in a few days. My car crawls to the end of their road. My foot cannot seem to find the energy to press any harder on the pedal. But I know I have to work at least a day or two to make sub plans and then I can come back again to take care of my dad.

Two summers ago the kitchen faucet started to leak. Whenever I visited on weekends to help with odd jobs around the house—mostly yardwork—my parents would bicker over it. Mom would say she can’t turn it any more off than off to make the dripping stop. This weekend he decided to teach me how to fix it. “Let’s head to the hardware store to get some parts,” he said as he grabbed his keys and wallet off the countertop. “Check out some videos on your phone to make sure you know what you’re doing. Make sure we get all the right parts.” He flashes a smile and gives me a quick wink. I thought I was there just for moral support for him and to deflect any more jabs from my mom about how long it took him to get this task completed. Together we took the old faucet out and put in the new one. His hands didn’t work as well as they used to; his fingers and grip weren’t quite strong enough for some of the tasks. He spoke as he worked and explained each step. It’s only looking back that I realize that he was teaching me more than I was helping him.

“What was your first job?” I asked him late one night. He said, “You know this, it was sweeping floors at Saint Michael’s school with my parents. All of us kids would go in on the weekends to sweep the classroom floors for extra money.” Maybe I knew this at one time, but I had forgotten. Maybe I just wanted to hear him tell me the story one more time. He went on to tell me about how he had gotten his job at National Fuel gas - a relative had introduced him to someone and he was able to start at the age of 17, right out of high school. He told me stories from when he was in the Army and would take road trips with his buddies. They once came home on leave and were almost stuck here in Buffalo because of a snow storm and couldn’t get tickets to get back to Texas.

“G’night Raisins, love you...you going to sleep down here tonight?” My dad asks me. I can hear the tremor in my dad’s voice. The man who has always been the brave hero in my life story. The roles have reversed. He tells me daily that I am doing a good job. He thanks me all the time. He tells me I am a pest. I go from sleeping on the floor in the den to sleeping in the living room on the sofa. It is nice to share the room with him. It’s easier to count his breaths from here.

We are having our very own slumber party every night. He has trouble working the TV remote. We stay up late watching “Resident Alien” and chuckling at the silliness. I’ve never been a night owl; but for my dad, I’ll do anything.

My mom is upstairs reading. Worrying and reading.

I asked my dad, “how much money do you keep in your checking account? How much should I keep in my account? He told me to keep between $10,000 and $15,000 in my account. He tries to keep that amount in his account also. He said that is the perfect amount in case an emergency arises. And then his furnace broke. It was like we knew something would be occurring soon. He and I tried to solve it via FaceTime; me in the basement and him in his hospital bed in the living room but he ended up needing to buy a new furnace afterall. It’s true, that is the perfect amount to keep in the checking account. Dad is right. He also told me, you don’t need as much money as you think you do. Spend it while you can.

At the very end, when he was tying up all his loose ends, we had our late night talks, he was deciding about his car, and we would talk about mom and the house. “I think Emma should take my car,” he said. “I think Tori is the better choice as she is independent and can carry her own insurance.” He rallied with, “Well, make me an offer then.” It would be Tori’s last conversation with her Papa. She transferred the ownership, registration, and title. They watched a cooking show together, it was a shared passion of theirs, as both love to cook. He was asleep when she pulled out of the driveway in his car. She wasn’t able to say goodbye.

It was late, my cheeks wet with tears, when he held my hand tight. His clear blue sky eyes held my eyes even tighter as he said, “If your best isn’t good enough, then they aren’t good enough for you.” He had asked me how the divorce was going. He could see things that I hadn’t. Or that I hadn’t wanted to see. “Let me know if you need more money,” he said. “I’d like to help you in any way I can.” I told him I just needed him here. He smiled a sad sort of smile and squeezed my hand in three short bursts. We sat in silence for a while.

He once told me anything can be fixed with a big enough hammer. If that doesn’t work, use some duct tape. Sometimes you need a little bit of both. Or a bit of WD-40. Either way, always use the right tool for the job. Except for the weedwhacker. The weedwhacker can only be rethreaded with his help. Many have tried. All have failed. Only he and I are able to get it done by working together. I may have to buy a new weedwhacker and hang this one on a wall. It’s not as simple as watching a video or going and buying a new spool or any Mr. Macho “oh, the little lady can’t do it” damsel in distress thing. So don’t even go there. My dad is up there in Heaven right now saying, “go buy a new one and save yourself some headaches and heartache. Leave that weedwhacker at my gravesite and I’ll have a good chuckle over it. Or bring it and we can both cry together. I don’t mind the tears anymore.”

He never wanted tears for the longest time. And then one night he admitted that his bed was all wet. When I asked why, he said it was probably from tears. From that point on, he let us cry. After being a caregiver for my husband for five years I never thought I would be in the role of caregiver again. But when my dad became so ill, I stepped in and did what had to be done. There was no one else. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I wouldn’t have traded that time I had with my dad. In fact, I wish I had more time with him. The days were a blur. We were tired and it was a lot of sitting around and watching TV and feeling like I was just wasting time when I should have been doing something with him. Talking more, asking more questions, getting more information from him. Gaining more knowledge from him. Learning more. Hugging more. Knowing more. Just more.

Dad had abandoned his ipad that he once was so attached to for news of the outside world. He would talk of the weather in Arizona and the headlines in my brother’s hometown, then move on to Florida to fill me in on my aunt and uncle. He often would know about breaking news in my town before I even knew about it. He gave up the Wordfeud games and golf games that kept him tethered to his friends and family. But mostly the Sunday crossword puzzles that he and I always worked on together. My weekend visits turned into me moving in for a year and visiting my home and daughters occasionally. Dad taught me to use a pen and be confident in my answers. I am smarter than I think. His eyes were failing him first. He would have me read him the clues and I would fill in the answers. That’s when I first noticed that his mind was also slipping. He couldn’t come up with the answers. Or the answers were slow in coming or they were just not right. Eventually the crossword puzzles just stopped.

It’s my birthday and my mom and dad send me home to spend it with my daughters. My daughters plan activities to keep me occupied and make me happy. All things that I love to do, especially when I am with them. Any time I am with my daughters I am happy. Usually. But I am so distracted. I know I should be with my dad. How could I not be with my dad? He only has months to live and I am not with him? These are precious days. He is on borrowed time. This is it. We are nearing the end of his prognosis. We are all feeling it. When dad gave me the thumbs up sign as I walked out the front door I could tell that he knew it too. No matter how many hours we spent kayaking or picking lavender, my dad was slipping away.

I’d been told to turn my phone to silent and put it away for my birthday. If anyone needed to reach me, they would call my daughters. Very early the next morning my sister called me. With too much cheer in her voice she says, “Happy birthday! Why don’t you and Tori get in the car and think about coming here soon? Like, right now maybe?” I tell her I don’t need to pack a bag; my clothes are already at mom and dad’s house. I just need to wake Tori. She says, that’s a good idea.

I’m lucky there are no speed traps on the thruway or I may have gotten speeding ticket number three on that day.

I’m on the couch in the living room thinking I’ll never fall asleep. The last dose of morphine was at eight PM. Or was it 7 PM? I should get up and look. I know it can be given every six hours, or was it every eight hours? Or was it more often as necessary if he was in pain? I am so tired. There is so much emotion in this house right now. Dad was so thirsty today. His tongue is so dry. He asked for water so many times. He only wants me.

My sister is angry. My brother is hurting. My dad is dying and my mother is praying for death.

I am angry.

I just want my dad.

One, two, three, four, five….twelve? Only twelve breaths? C’mon dad, breathe. Dammit breathe.

Start again.

One, two, three, four, five…ten? WTF…

I am not going to cross the finish line with you. I have been here with you. I love you. I want you to stay here.

Hiccough, Hiccough, Hiccough.

“Dad? Dad! GRAPES!”

….

And no one was there.