I don't remember the room number. For some reason, that seems like it should be an important detail to the story, but it's not.
The elevator door opened up and I started walking down the long hallway that would eventually lead me to my fathers room. That smell. I hated being there. I hated coming back to this place filled with pain and sorrow. I wanted to look at all the patients in their rooms with their open doors, but I couldn't. I didn't want to hurt for them. I didn't want to cry. I needed to be strong and composed for what was waiting for me at the end of the hall.
I had made several of these trips. He would get better after a brief stay, and then return home. I think they had reserved this room for him. On the corner of the floor, near the nurses station. He had windows, and lots of room to himself.
My last visit prior had been at Thanksgiving. I watched on - that day as he huffed and puffed his way through all the fixings. He was determined to orchestrate this meal and all the cooking, for his family. For his wife. For his 6 year old daughter. And for his two adult children; myself and my older brother. I'm certain he knew this would be his last. He couldn't have weighed more than me. He had become a shrunken, old, broken version of himself yet with the same passion and determination to live each day with purpose and intent. Laughter. And wit.
After dinner he lay resting on the couch. Every move was painful to watch, I can only imagine the pain he was enduring. They had placed a stint in his chest and he had his shirt off. I came over and laid down next to him with my head right under his chin, careful not to touch the stint. I wanted to hold on forever. There is nothing more heartbreaking than being unable to love on someone who is in so much physical pain. Especially when it's your daddy.
I knew he was dying. And I hated it.
When I reached his room the door was ajar. I walked in to find my father sitting in a chair in front of the tv, a football game on, and a nurse who had just finished washing his hair with a sponge. She told him, 'You're daughter is here'. His back to me, he couldn't turn around. He was clearly well medicated. The nurse left us, and for a brief moment I almost wished she would stay. I didn't know how to be. I didn't know what to do left alone with this dying man and all of our unresolved history.
I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. He was in and out of consciousness. His eyes met mine and I am pretty sure he thought I was his youngest daughter. Kaitlyn. He said her name a few times. He mumbled a lot. I had never seen my dad this way before. A man of words, reduced to none. A man of great charisma and energy, so deflated. I grabbed his hand and we sat there in front of the football game. Nearby was a table with a framed photograph of his wife and child. Racing forms were strewn around the room. As though he had important work to take care of.
There had never been a point in our lives as father and daughter, where I felt the role I was in at that moment. Which was not the child. But I wanted to be. I wanted to be there with my mother holding MY hand. I didn't know how to be. I didn't know how to look at this man and not feel myself breaking into a million tiny pieces around his feet.
But I had to. I fought back tears, at times, unsuccessfully. I noticed all the bones in his spine poking out of his gown like a crocodile. His skin was thin and the veins beneath it obvious and pulsating. He was so fragile looking. He was almost unrecognizable to me. I spent my last moments with Cancer. Cancer in its most advanced and ruthless stages. Dad was gone. Cancer had won. The spirit of that man, was no longer in that room.
The nurse came in and helped him to the bathroom. Then we helped him back into bed. There he fell asleep almost instantly. We exchanged few words. I will always wonder if he even knew I was there that day. I squeezed his hand and whispered 'I love you' and walked to the door. Standing there, I knew this would be the last time I would ever see my father, and it was.
I turned around and started walking out the door and back down the long hallway of pain and sorrow. I didn't look back, I was too afraid his eyes would be open. I was too afraid he would see me leaving him. Finance was waiting downstairs to pick me up, and when I got into the car and shut the door, I broke. I think the next 20 mins were longer and harder than getting the news that he had passed some weeks later. Something about knowing you have just said your last goodbye to someone you will never ever see again.
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