Charles B. Pirrone
27 Oct 1947 - 2 April 2017
My father died.
It's been 11 weeks and 4 days. I know. I'm still counting. I don't think that's a good sign. At least my shrink says it isn't.
I remember sitting by my dad's bedside in the ICU, hearing the beep of the EKG, absorbing every whoosh of the ventilator hoping he would take a breath on his own. But he couldn't. He was brain dead. I couldn't look at his vacant face so I kept my eyes trained on the monitors. I studied his BP, pulse, oxygen levels. I studied the little jagged line that showed his heart beating. Alive, but no longer living. A nurse came in to check on him. She asked if there was anything she could do for me. I shook my head. As I squeezed his flaccid hand in mine I knew there was nothing more anyone could do for either one of us. Before she left I looked up at her and asked, "What do I do now?" She patted my shoulder and said "Whatever you would normally do."
So I get up every day, I go to work. I review financial statements. I analyze data. I prepare reports. Then I go home. I feed the cat and make dinner for myself. I watch mindless TV. Every now and then I see friends or go to dinner with my sister. I keep busy.
But then night falls. I lie in what is quite possibly the most comfortable bed in the world, but I do not sleep. Questions spin through my head. Was my dad proud of me? I'm sure he was in the way that dads are always proud of their kids, but did I earn it? Did I deserve his adoration? I wasn't the best daughter. I got frustrated with him every time he would lose his wallet or his car keys or forget something important. I was angry because I felt like I was raising a child. In many ways I was. I knew he was dying, but I didn't take the time to realize that that meant he was dying. That each day was one less day I had with him. I thought we had a couple of years. I was wrong.
Now I lie in my super comfortable bed every night and I think about the time dad chaperoned my class trip to Dawes Arboretum. I think about the stories he told me about WWI so that I could pass a history test. I wonder if I would've ever passed Chemistry without his help? I remember how excited he was when the school decided to place me in the gifted program. He always believed in me. So much so that he bought me my first Calculus book when I was 8. I remember playing chess. I remember bike rides and car trips. I also remember him embarrassing me in front of my first crush. I thought I'd never forgive him for that one.
That's one of the great ironies in life. People let you down. They do things you swear you'll never forgive them for. But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, it's YOU who you can't forgive, not the other person. I remember every time I tried to act like I didn't know him in front of my friends. I remember every time I said 'I hate you' out of anger. I remember every hurt and every scar I put on his heart. I know he cried. Not in front of me, but alone. And I hate myself. I lie in that super comfortable bed with an ache in my chest that is so very real. It's amazing how physical grief can be. It's as though your heart is literally ripping.
I lie alone and think about what his final days were like? Did he know he was dying? The day before he fell into the coma his dementia was the worst I'd ever seen it. He wasn't cognizant. But was he able to tell that he didn't have much time left? Was he scared? Was he in pain? These thoughts circle my brain and make my heart ache even more. My entire life I've been fixing things. I'm a doer. I'm a planner. But death isn't something you can plan and it's certainly not something you can fix.
Night is definitely the hardest. That's when my entire soul aches from within. It's so quiet, but the silence is deafening. It's almost accusatory. I couldn't fix him.
My religion tells me about the wonderful place that my dad went to where there is no multi-organ system failure and his heart beats in joy. He's been reunited with his own father which is something he'd been waiting on for almost 17 years. I'm glad that he's found eternity, but I'm human and selfish by nature. I pray over and over asking God why he had to take my father away so quickly. But the answer is always the same. He was never mine to keep. My father was a child of God; on loan to this world. He completed his journey and returned to be with the one true Father. But, as selfish as it sounds, it only makes my heart ache more.
I'll see my father again in due course. I just have to be patient. Dad always said one of his regrets was that he never taught my sister and I patience. I told him it's hard to teach something you don't know. Ouch. That was mean. I was a terrible daughter. That's the kind of thing that makes my heart ache more. I guess patience is something I'll have to figure out on my own.
So...for now, and probably for a while to come, I'm going to allow myself to lie in my super comfy bed, the sound of silence filling my ears, and I'll allow myself to cry. To miss. To regret. And to hope.
And when morning comes, I'll start all over again.
