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[sonyaany]

Eight Weeks With Dad

The last email that I sent my sister, Brooke, was a picture of my ten year old daughter, Jocelyn, dressed in my heels, wearing Ray Ban aviators. Just the picture. No text. Brooke's two sentence reply was,"Just like you. You're Ray Ban Sale just like mom." It certainly said a lot about Brooke, my mom, my daughter and me. And I loved the fact that we knew what it all meant but didn't have to get into it. But that was it. It probably took all of thirty seconds. When I found out a few days later that she had died suddenly and unexpectedly, I realized that was my last exchange with her. It was a thirty second goodbye. Three months later, in early June, my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He moved in with me, where he lived until he died in August. It was an eight week goodbye. And that made all the difference.

From the time I was twelve, my father raised me as a single father. He wiped away my tears of teenage heartbreak that were usually reserved Ray Ban Wayfarer 90% OFF for Moms, he strengthened me through the deaths of my mother and my best friend and Ray Ban Sale he had probably suffered more during my painful divorce than even I had.

And, well into his seventies, he cared for my daughter, Jocelyn, while I worked, starting when she was three months old until she began school. He went out and bought his own car seat, stroller, high chair, bouncy seat and a wonder saucer. His once very masculine apartment with it's autographed sports and political memorabilia, perfectly categorized books and movie collections which were once kept in obsessively compulsive neat order, came to resemble a day care center. Sippy cups, bouncy balls, paper princess crowns and houses that he made for Jocelyn's imaginary friend, Jerry, abounded through every room.

He would limp across the living room with his cane, trying to pick up after her to no avail and finally throw his arms up in the air and just say, "Phooey!" with a big smile. My father was Navy man, a man of organization and routine. But he embraced this enormous distraction to his well ordered life so robustly that it was breath taking.

It was the very essence of devotion and the very reason why I always assumed that I would move my dad into my home if he were ever really sick.

I knew the challenge would be in convincing him. He'd never seen our lower level because he couldn't handle stairs, so I think he figured our basement was like the ones he'd always known with wet concrete walls and floors and window wells full of leaves and cobwebs.

He loved his apartment with its view of the Potomac river, his computer, his notebooks with his sports statistics, his movies and football games on VCR tapes and his old leather recliner. Mostly, he dreaded the idea of being a burden as much as the thought of giving up his independence. Living in the home of my husband? Under the roof of another man? At one point in the hearty discussions, he insisted that he would pay rent. Rent?

I pointed out that once you factored in my years of private school and college tuition not to mention all the parking tickets that I collected in high school, he had probably covered the down payment on the house. He said he didn't want to talk about it anymore and he wasn't living in my basement.

However, two weeks after his terminal diagnosis, he almost went into a diabetic coma and ended up in ICU. The doctors told him it was time to call hospice and he would need round the clock nursing care. He said he wanted to die and asked me to put him in a nursing home.

Instead, I went home, repainted the very white lower level bedroom a Williamsburg Taupe, put down a new carpet navy with gold stars (my dad was extremely patriotic), moved the large screen family room television into that bedroom and called Direct TV to get an appointment to get a box installed for him. That was actually the hardest part. Don't get me started on them.

I went to his apartment to get the "necessities." Signed photos from Franklin Roosevelt, Truman and Kennedy. Various family photos. A painting of a ship in the Galapagos Islands. And the most important thing, his computer, his lifeline to the outside world. We exchanged multiple emails every single day and I was one of many people with whom he had such frequent Internet contact.

A few days later, my brother, Michael Monroney, Jr. and I brought my dad home by ambulance on a warm summer morning. A few clouds sailed across the blue sky, our hydrangea bloomed like cotton candy so high that you could barely see the front of the house and there was a breeze unusual for June in Washington.

It took two enormous men to get him down the long flight of stairs in a "stair chair." He could walk with a cane but he definitely could not climb back up the stairs. It did not escape my attention that he would probably never leave the basement again.

He walked into his new bedroom unsteadily with his cane. He was very pleased to see the television, his pictures and especially, the computer. I had positioned the desk with the view of the backyard and he peered out the window for what seemed like a very long time. I stood behind him. The sun streamed through the parkland and on to the pool, which seemed to reflect a deeper blue than ever. The pink and white impatiens that always seemed to wither from the DC heat looked alive and stood at attention as if they knew they had a special guest.

I had never seen the backyard look so beautiful. But I had never stopped and looked at it quietly at that time of day or from that angle. Come to think of it, I am not sure I had really taken pause to appreciate it at all. Kids needed juice boxes, towels or band aids or I was watching them while trying to make a phone call or send an email and, really, I rarely stopped to do anything leisurely.

Finally, he sat down and stared at the computer.

"I can't believe that I can really get my emails here, Sweetheart," he said as began going through the hundreds of emails that he had missed while in the hospital.

"GP! You're here!" Jocelyn, now ten, ran in, hugged him and asked, "Can I get you anything? We have Ritz crackers and. we have ice cream!"

He looked up at her, he looked around the room at his familiar pictures and he got choked up for the first of what would be many times.

I had only seen my dad cry twice in my life. The first time was when his father died. The second time, his eyes welled up was when I was driving off for my freshman year in college, leaving him to live alone for the first time, maybe, ever. Both were notable events in his life.

During the next eight weeks, his eyes watered on a routine basis. When his friends left after visiting, when my daughter brought him a root beer float, when my nephew helped him to the bathroom or when he talked about his own father or a particular memory.

He would get frustrated as the tears fell and tell me, "I am not upset. I have had a marvelous life. I'm just so happy."

It must have been a stunning change for him to go from living the virtual existence of one almost entirely reliant on a computer or television to having so much human contact every day. That, combined with the knowledge that his days were numbered, transformed his experience to a very vivid, personal and no doubt, emotional, one. A root beer float made with love by his grand daughter, especially knowing that it may be one of his last ones, certainly brought more joy to him than an email.

In his first few days with us, I flitted in and out of his room, fluffing the pillows, adjusting the temperature on the electric blanket, refilling his iced tea or checking his insulin and giving him his medications. Each time I came into the room, I started talking about a particular memory that we shared or I asked him a question about something. He would engage with me but inevitably, his eyes would begin to tear.

One day, passing his room on the way to the laundry, I noticed him staring wide eyed at the television. When he saw me, he quickly shut his eyes and began a quiet snore.

I doubled back and said, "Daddy. I saw that. You don't have to pretend to be asleep. just tell me if you don't want to talk to me. You can have peace and quiet."