Bohemian Delilah

A little after 10PM my dad, having lived a full—though short—life, quietly breathed his last breath. He was 55. I expected something a little more final.

He was not in any pain. His last words, at 10AM, were, “I love Lee, Pat and the girls.” He wanted a cheeseburger more than anything.

The rest of his family, whom none of the nurses could recognize, were finally able to tear themselves away from their televisions. It is an overwhelming miracle that I have kept my mouth closed, that I have hugged them and allowed them to pretend that they are being helpful, when, in truth, I want to drag them out into the street and keep them away from my mom, from those who were there everyday. It is only here that I write: I will never forget they told my dad a new TV was more important. I can choose to be strong and not say anything, but I can also choose who I allow to remain in my life. They have shown how valuable family is to them. I choose not to make that bargain, I think it is worth more.

Jacki and I have made a pact, we will hold hands when we need to hold our tongues.

Today we went to the funeral home. My mom hates this—wakes and funerals. We don’t believe there will be an open casket. I don’t want people telling me how good he looks. I don’t want the directors to “work their magic.” I don’t like the way the director told us that the autopsy will include cutting into the head.

There are so many people I want to tell, but when I pick up the phone I just feel too tired. I don’t want to say it so many times.

We went through pictures trying to find one for the papers. One that people will recognize, one where he isn’t too young, one where he isn’t sick. There are boxes and boxes, groupings which aren’t clearly deliniated by timelines or child. In a fistful there’s him in the hospital, Beth minutes after birth, Jacki’s graduation, their wedding. I don’t know why they’re so confusing. We spent half the time laughing. I add to the list, “one where he isn’t making ‘that’ face.”

People keep calling and stopping by. It’s hard to remember, esp. with his family, that they think they’re being helpful. His sister came with us to the funeral home. One of them “needed to come” to “be there for” mom. Mom thinks they’re afraid she’ll make the wrong decisions.

They mentioned no less than three times that there is room in their family plot when my mom announced cremation. It isn’t the money. His body failed him in the end; we don’t want him trapped in a box; he said it is what he wanted—we all have our reasons.

There is so much anger knotted into my sorrow. It’s hard to pick apart the two.

I didn’t make it back in time. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t wake up again. I sat with my family. We talked about food, engagement rings, and school—when we weren’t crying. I hated the silence.

I was told a week. I bought my ticket to get in at 11AM. It was the earliest, by plane or by train. It left at 3AM. I told my mom, and she said not so early. She was still going to school that day and couldn’t pick me up. “Get in around 4. Around supper time.” I wouldn’t have been early enough anyway.

The train started moving and after 2 stops I got the call. “It will be today.” I cried the whole way. I called Tom and he took care of everything and started driving up. I called over and over, “Can I get out at this stop and fly up?” “Are you going any faster?” I am so sorry for the cashier who had to comfort me when I bought a Pepsi.

I always loved the train, it seemed to give me extra time—time to knit and read. I feel like all that time was taken back.

Time went so slow. Maybe I should wait and give it time before I write, but I won’t. Time went so slow. And as the day went by, as I was driven over to the hospital, as we listened to his breaths slow, it seemed as though it moved all too fast. And in the end there was no moan, there was no deep breath. In the end, surrounded by those who loved him, my father simply stopped breathing.