It was almost Christmas. The 21st of December. Not even 6 months ago her father had gotten sick. One day in the middle of summer he complained about his stomach.
Cancer. Even at 8 years old she knew that cancer was bad; It just sounded like something terrible.
He tried radiation but it only weakened him and he eventually stopped. Perhaps not out of surrender, but more of a release from the disease’s pain, did he decide to go.
Despite the illness there were fond moments. Her mother had to work to support them while she stayed home all day with Daddy. One day she tried to cook him sausage. But being so little she just couldn’t do it. They ended up making it together. There were many moments like that one. Forever cherished to her.
But he had gotten worse. With the onset of December had come the worst of his disease. An uncle built Daddy a ramp for his wheelchair to get in and out of the house, but it was never really used; Daddy didn’t get out anymore.
The same uncle put the toilet higher for Daddy’s comfort, but he was already bedridden.
Then there was the big oxygen machine by his bed. It was cold and ominous looking, with a sound that reminded her of a hospital. Beside the machine was the dresser covered with medications.
She was too young to understand any of it.
That Monday morning a Hospice nurse was to come out and start her first day with Daddy. Her mother had decided it was too much to leave her alone with him as bad as he was getting. For some reason she never showed up… Was it some mysterious work of God? A “twist of fate?”
He died that morning at 9:30. The neon green numbers were forever branded into her mind as the whole mess went on in front of her.
It began with a simple request. Daddy needed his bedpan. She handed it over and walked to the opposite of the bed to give him privacy. As she sat down the movements of his swaying could be felt. Her head turned to find his upper body swinging in circles; Forward, then back, sometimes side to side.
“Daddy?”
She lost count of how many times she called his name. As he started to fall she jumped to her feet. Around the bed she went to help him. But alas, her little 8 year old body wasn’t enough to hold him up, and he slid to the floor. She was in some way glad that she could do something; She didn’t think him hitting his head on the dresser would be bearable.
Her Daddy lay on his back in the floor, his eyes staring blankly up into the ceiling. She wasn’t sure what to do. All she knew was what she had seen in the movies. Her little head came down gently onto his chest after a long stare, but came back up in shock. No breath…
She ran down the hall and dialed her mother at work quickly.
“Daddy’s not breathing, come home please!”
Momma was there in no time. She never could remember if she went back to Daddy, but more than likely she stayed with him. Momma was worried, but not crying… Momma called 911.
It took them an hour, but to her it was only minutes as she stood vigil by the road to direct them to Daddy. As they went with Momma to the back, she sat on the couch and began to look out the window. In the distance she heard the men talking.
“He’s gone.”
Momma let out a cry. She heard it from down the hall and cried. Staring out the window at nothing. She thought Momma came in and hugged her, maybe said something; She never remembered.
A hearse parked in the back yard. They took a stretcher from it to the back door of the house. It went in empty and later came out with a body under the stark white sheet. Only 8 years old but she knew. In that short instant, after the acknowledgement of his death, she was no longer the innocent little girl she had always been. Nothing would ever be the same. And it wasn’t…
(to be continued…)