facebook
twitter
rss 
Two days before my dad died it was the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. We sat in his room at the nursing home, some mere spectators clinging to the periphery like there was an invisible force field surrounding his failing body that couldn’t be broached. But me, I sat on the edge of the bed holding his hand, wiping a cold cloth on his forehead, wetting his dry mouth with a spongy swab, watching him sink into the bed, watching his eyes sink into his skull, watching the man I called Dad, my own Titanic, sink into nothing before my eyes.
I have this great memory of my dad out in his big back yard, the one where my sisters and I played hours of softball and Ghost in the Graveyard. It was summer, I had come home to visit – one of my rare trips back to Indiana – and it was dusk. My kids, two and six at the time, were amazed at the fireflies twinkling all around them. We lived out West and this was a new phenomenon for them.
Dad had gotten an empty mayonnaise jar and poked holes in the lid. He was helping my daughter catch the lightning bugs and pushing my son around in an old dirty wheelbarrow while he giggled and pointed at the yellow glowing bugs.
Three years later when I came back home after my dad got sick, I shielded my kids from his sickness and the nursing home. I wanted them to have that one fabulous memory of their grandpa. I didn’t want them to see him as old, sick and dying. I didn’t want them to be afraid of him the way most kids are of old people in nursing homes.
At some point, though, I changed my mind. I thought it would help my dad – who, at only fifty-seven, had suffered a series of strokes and was unable to walk, to talk much, to know people. And when I first brought them in, even though he couldn’t really speak, his eyes said enough – he was happy to see them, and thrilled to meet his newest grandson. The kids were hesitant at first, but soon were bouncing around the room and jumping on the bed, as if the nursing home room was just another backyard, and the man in the bed hadn’t changed a bit since he’d run crazy through the yard with them just a few years before.
Many people, including family and friends, could not understand why I moved back home when my dad got sick. They thought it was noble, but a little crazy. Something they never would have done. For me, I worked from home as a book publicist and I could do my job anywhere. I was thirty-six, had left Indiana at twenty-three and had only gone back home to visit him on the rare occasion I wasn’t vacationing somewhere more exotic, warmer and more fun. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was because he was so young to be in a nursing home. But whatever it was, it was the right thing for me.
I was always a daddy’s girl, my mom – maybe still a little bitter over the divorce and my father’s alcoholism – would be quick to tell you. From the time I was a baby, he adored me. When I was born, he held me in his overly large hands, where I fit almost perfectly. He bounced me to sleep, spoiling me. He brushed my golden hair after a bath. He made jokes and then used the same brush to scratch his ass, making my sisters and I dissolve into fits of giggles.
When I was older, the alcoholism got the best of him - and my mom, sisters and I got what was leftover. When we’d leave the house, he wouldn’t worry about whether we had our toothbrush or where we were going. But he’d always worry about the family name, saying “Remember who you are.” And when he’d get picked up for drunken driving or stealing at the grocery store, I learned what irony was and how alcoholism could warp someone.
Legacy and his name were important to him though, sober or not. He wanted boys and I never really felt pride from him until I had my two sons. Which is a shame because I have a beautiful daughter and my younger sister has five of them – all little angels with blonde hair and blue eyes. My dad missed out on a lot, and many say he didn’t deserve what my sister and I did for him at the end.
During the holidays he got sick with a highly contagious infection and was hospitalized. My sister and I brought his grandkids in to see him. We all had to put on papery yellow gowns and gloves before entering the room. We spread out the kids at the end of his bed – you couldn’t tell which kids belonged to her or me, they all looked alike – golden hair, shining blue eyes and big smiles. They looked like a string of Christmas lights – his legacy strung out at the foot of his bed, twinkling like those fireflies – and they began to sing Silent Night, a song they were practicing for their preschool play.
My dad’s eyes filled with tears and he smiled, looking from one grandchild to the next and up to the baby in my arms. And I think in that moment he realized what he had missed out on – but more importantly, what he would be leaving behind as his legacy. He held on through that Winter and into Spring, his favorite time of year.
Two days after the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, my dad died while I sat on the bed with him. And while I held on to his hand, I let go of a lot of pain, a lot of memories that kept me angry and kept me away from him much of my early adult years. Instead, I remembered the fireflies, the hair brush, the laughter, the good times. I focused on the fact that he held me in his hands when I came into the world, and so I held his hand while he left. And I remember everyday who I am and the shinier parts, the best parts, of the legacy he left behind.
p.s. This picture is one of my favorites. My family (B.A. - before alcoholism) on vacation in Arizona in the late '70s. My parents were so cool in their aviators... I'm the blonde on the left next to my sisters.
