Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted here, and this post
(and possibly several future posts) has nothing to do with Melanoma, but I’m
going to be using this as a form of therapy. Maybe by writing about this, I
will be better able to accept what has happened and learn/manage to adjust what
will have to be a new normal.
On January 20, 2018, my dad died. He went over to my
neighbors’ house to change a light switch. After coming upstairs from the
basement he starting coughing and was breathing heavily. So my neighbor, “D”
told him to sit down and rest a bit. They started talking/ watching TV (Law and
Order, I think), she got up to get something and when she turned around he was
slumped over. Her first thought was just that he fell asleep, but she couldn’t
wake him up. D called my mom, who rushed over and also 911. Mom says that she
heard him breathe out and then nothing. We a pretty sure that was his last
breath. The paramedics arrived by then and took over cpr. They worked on him
for awhile at the house (by this point I was also there, having run over in my
bare feet after D yelled up our stairs to me) and then transported him to a
local hospital. Mom and I soon arrived at the ER and were taken into a
consultation room where we were waiting for the news. Both of us pretty much
knew what it was, but I guess there was still that small hope they could save
him... then the doctor came into the room and told us that they were never able
to get his heart started, and he died. She took us to the room he was in and we
sat (I sat- and mainly stared at his hand watching the color fade from it,
while mom stood closer to his head) and said our goodbyes. 10 days later I can
still see his hand, and his face with the breathing tube so clearly.
The funeral took place the next Saturday. We were both
surprised at how many people came, although we probably shouldn’t have been. He
was the most social one out of all of us, involved in everything. A cousin read this poem at the funeral:
"The Dash
by Linda Ellis
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end
He noted that first came her date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
© by Linda Ellis, Copyright Inspire Kindness,
LLC 1996"
It’s been ten days plus approximately two hours since he
died and it still really doesn’t feel real to me. It’s like my brain knows he
is gone but I really don’t want to believe. Maybe I still think I’m going to
wake up from this nightmare and he’s still going to be here. And then I see the
sympathy cards, the death certificate, or somebody offers their condolences and
I realize, again, that it really happened. My dad died, and I am not quite sure
what to do with that.
At this point, I/we are just taking this day by day, minute by minute. I know it gets easier over time, and that as much as I wish I could change events, there is nothing I can do to change things. Eventually, we will adjust to this new normal, and I know that he will live on in our hearts.
