Remembering My Dad

It's been 11 years -next Thursday- since Dad died. I wrote this blog some time ago. I wanted to share it with you all because this was a very trying time in my life, and I think that it helps to explain some of the "Rebekah" that you all may not know.

Dad's death has continued to be something that hurts, as expected, but it gets easier. It's strange that every year around this time, all of the memories come back, but I feel blessed that I've had them. Dad's death has helped me to help others that are going through the death of a loved one, and I'm glad that I can be there for them.

Now that I have 4 kids come Thanksgiving, it makes me sad to think that the kids will never get to know their Grandpa, but I have to remember that it's not my place to interfere with God's plan. I have to keep his memories alive for them, so that they can experience him...through me.


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Written on May 30, 2008

Dad died on October 30, 1997. I was with him when he took his last breath. I don't remember a lot from that day, but I remember enough.

It was Wednesday. At my high school, Wednesdays were early release days. To this day, I'm not sure why. I just figured that I wouldn't argue. It was nice to be out of school at 12:00pm.

When I left for school that morning, Dad was doing okay. He wasn't dancing around the house by any stretch, but I certainly didn't expect him to die that next morning. Sure, Hospice had been called in, but I didn't realize the severity of the situation. No one told me that I needed to prepare for my Dad to die. I was 16 for cryin' out loud. This is not something that a 16 year old should have to prepare for. I say that no one told me to prepare, but I'm sure they did. This is one of those fuzzy details of my life.

I went to a private school because of the trouble that I got into as a teenager. I so adoringly referred to high school as "skirt school" because I had to wear a uniform. I think that there may have been 60 kids in the entire school from Kindergarten through 12th grade. There were four teachers in my class. It's strange how friendships are made, but one of my best friends now was one of my high school teachers.

Melissa, my teacher/friend, came to my house the evening that Dad died. I remember her trying to be there for me, but also not knowing exactly what she could do to help me.

That Wednesday evening, voices were whispers. I think that I realized that his time was short because of the way everyone was acting. "We'll be lucky if he makes it through the night!" someone said.

I remember sitting in the recliner with Melissa on the couch next to me. Fran Drescher was whining on The Nanny. I typically love The Nanny, but this night, I loved nothing. I sat in the recliner in somewhat of a fog. I don't even remember when Melissa left. I don't remember much of that evening after The Nanny to be quite honest until it happened.

Mom and I climbed in to bed together in my Dad's room at around 11:00pm. Mom and I never slept in the same bed unless we were staying away from home. Dad had been put in a hospital bed because it was easier to handle him with his condition.

We could tell that Dad's breathing was slowing down. We knew that this would be his last night.

I never truly went to sleep. I can remember hearing his breathing slow by the minute. I know that what kept me awake that night was listening for him to breathe. I remember wondering over and over again, "Was that it? Was that his last breath?"

Several family members were at the house that night. My Mom, my Dad's Mom (Memaw) and my Dad's brother and sister were there. We all gathered around his hospital bed and wept. We knew that these were his last moments. We each held onto a part of him as he went. My Mom rubbed his head, my Grandmother held one hand while my Aunt held the other. My uncle held on to his leg, and I held on to his feet. I remember rubbing his feet for him as a kid, so I just did what I knew. I rubbed his feet through each emotionally agonizing breath that he took until he took his last. Dad died at 1:15am.

Dad never struggled in death that we could tell. He went peacefully. He didn't seem to be in pain anymore, and when he last spoke, he seemed to be in good spirits.

Brain cancer takes its toll on everyone involved. It's different than other cancers in that it makes the person that it takes hold of, for lack of a better word, crazy.

As soon as I knew that Dad was sick, I wanted to be able to come clean to him for all of the "things" that I had done; for all of the things that had happened to me. I wanted to apologize to him for being such a disappointment. I always thought that I'd be able to tell him. To get forgiveness. Several times, while he was sleeping, I was very close to telling him everything, but there was always the fear that he would get better, and kill me! I chuckle at the thought now for parents are forgiving, no matter what, but when I was 16, this was a risk that I just wasn't "adult" enough to take on. He had brain cancer, so there was no telling what his reaction would be.

I started smoking when I was 12 years old. This being one of the main reasons that I ended up in private school, I have always struggled with it. The family knew that I smoked, but I was a teenager. I thought that I was hiding it successfully.

The moment that Dad died, I hugged my Mom. I wanted to be held. I wanted to be assured that we would be okay. Dad was the driving force in our house, and now that he was gone, what were we going to do? After I hugged my Mom, I walked outside and I smoked a cigarette. No one dared to say anything to me.

I called Melissa to let her know that Dad had died. I don't remember the conversation, but I knew that she loved me, and was praying for me. She always has.

I called another friend of mine, Jasmine. She was such a wonderful friend for me during this time. I spent a lot of time with her during this whole process.

After I finished my cigarette, I walked back inside. The air was still. It was dark. Even though the lights were on, I can remember how dark it was inside. I don't think that it was ever the same for me.

I walked in to Dad's room where his body lay. It seemed like it took a few hours for the funeral home to get to the house to take his body. I had never seen a dead body. Granted, there have been open casket funerals, but those bodies are different. They are dressed nicely, groomed, and made up. They are made to be as presentable as possible.

I hate funerals.

I reached out to my Dad, who lay there, dead, to tell him one last goodbye before the funeral home arrived to take him. I touched his cheek very slightly with the back of my hand. It occurred to me, at that point, that he was never coming back. His skin was cold to the touch. I didn't care one bit that there was a "dead guy" in front of me. I only cared that this was my Daddy. The Daddy that was supposed to be proud of me when I made good grades, when I graduated high school, college, walk me down the aisle at my princess wedding, be there for my choices, my mistakes, enjoy his grandchildren, grow old, and teach me his wisdom.

He was gone.

I said my "good-byes" as best as a 16 year old can.

That night, I slept in the hospital bed that he died in. I didn't care that someone would think it strange. I wanted to be close to my Dad. The Dad that had been ripped from me entirely too soon.

Gone.

I realized immediately that I should have told him all of my secrets. He would have loved me anyway because in the grand scheme of things, it's all about love.