Journal entry by Ann Lane —
My Dad passed away.
I didn't think this would make an appropriate Facebook post. But he has died, and only now can I even type the words.
I would like to write about the incredible bond I had with this great, great man who I was honored to call my father.
In his last months, he fought so hard against this evil thing we call cancer. Why God allows cancer to exist, to take our loved ones, our children, even our pets, is beyond me. It is a battle nobody should have to face. I would have gladly went to war, heck in a way I felt like we actually were at war, for my Dad not to suffer from this terrible disease.
But what I am starting to realize, is what a gift these past seven months have been. I was able to be with my father after work and every single weekend, for over 30 weeks straight. I knew when I walked in their door, what kind of day my father was having, his mood, his needs and just what needed to be done - even when it was really hard to do it.
But even when there was nothing to be done or could be done... my being there next to him felt like the right thing to do. And that was a blessing.
Towards his final weeks, his needs became even greater. And by that time I knew my father like a mother knows her child. I knew his smell, when he was in pain, what he'd eat (and what he wouldn't) and how to touch him, soothe him, and talk to him, to settle his anxiety.
In his end days, Dad couldn't talk much. I've never been with someone who is dying, so I relied on the hospice nurses for guidance. But, even when nobody else could quite make out my dad's mumbling, I understood every word he said.
I pulled up a chair and sat by his bed and rubbed his back. During a lunch break, I snuck off to Bath & Body Works and bought a soothing cream called Comfort. It has a subtle, manly scent, and I massaged his hands and feet with it several times a day. When no one else was in the room, I shaved the stubble growing on his beard, brushed what was left of his hair with his favorite, black hairbrush, and even climbed in bed with him to hold him, just one more time.
Taking care of my Dad, I'll admit, was physically exhausting. He was a full-grown man. A strong man, who up until the day he was diagnosed, was just as normal and active as you and I. He mowed the grass, did projects around the house, met his friends for weekly lunches & dinner dates... a few weeks prior to his diagnosis on Easter day of 2017, I had taken he and Mom to one of my swing dances. He enjoyed the live 40's-style band, the dancing, the outfits, the ambiance... it is one of my last best memories of us all together enjoying an evening out, happy.
My mother though, is tiny. Between she and I, it took both of us coordinating and working together, to get dad up, dressed, fed, showered, and cared for 24/7. We made sure he had healthy, and appetizing meals (since he'd invariably only eat a few bites), easy to wear and comfortable clothes, his favorite programs to watch on tv... we did everything possible to make him comfortable. But thinking back, he did the same for us. Not one time, after we adjusted a blanket, brought him a drink, his medicine, etc... did he forget to say, "Thank you". And not an off the cuff, "thanks". But a genuine, heartfelt, "Thank you, Annie", or "Thank you, Pep." (Mom's nickname was Pepper).
So I want to return that favor.
I want to say to you Dad, Thank YOU.
Thank YOU for giving me a wonderful life. Thank YOU for your patience, and guidance and never-ending love (even though we all know I can be difficult!).
I will keep my promise and take care of Mom, that you can be sure. I'm with her everyday, making sure she's eating, starting a new schedule, sleeping... but she's heartbroken for you, Dad.
Remember when I said, even through his mumblings, I could understand every word he said?
His last words, whispered in my ear, were "love you too".
What a gift.
I didn't think this would make an appropriate Facebook post. But he has died, and only now can I even type the words.
I would like to write about the incredible bond I had with this great, great man who I was honored to call my father.
In his last months, he fought so hard against this evil thing we call cancer. Why God allows cancer to exist, to take our loved ones, our children, even our pets, is beyond me. It is a battle nobody should have to face. I would have gladly went to war, heck in a way I felt like we actually were at war, for my Dad not to suffer from this terrible disease.
But what I am starting to realize, is what a gift these past seven months have been. I was able to be with my father after work and every single weekend, for over 30 weeks straight. I knew when I walked in their door, what kind of day my father was having, his mood, his needs and just what needed to be done - even when it was really hard to do it.
But even when there was nothing to be done or could be done... my being there next to him felt like the right thing to do. And that was a blessing.
Towards his final weeks, his needs became even greater. And by that time I knew my father like a mother knows her child. I knew his smell, when he was in pain, what he'd eat (and what he wouldn't) and how to touch him, soothe him, and talk to him, to settle his anxiety.
In his end days, Dad couldn't talk much. I've never been with someone who is dying, so I relied on the hospice nurses for guidance. But, even when nobody else could quite make out my dad's mumbling, I understood every word he said.
I pulled up a chair and sat by his bed and rubbed his back. During a lunch break, I snuck off to Bath & Body Works and bought a soothing cream called Comfort. It has a subtle, manly scent, and I massaged his hands and feet with it several times a day. When no one else was in the room, I shaved the stubble growing on his beard, brushed what was left of his hair with his favorite, black hairbrush, and even climbed in bed with him to hold him, just one more time.
Taking care of my Dad, I'll admit, was physically exhausting. He was a full-grown man. A strong man, who up until the day he was diagnosed, was just as normal and active as you and I. He mowed the grass, did projects around the house, met his friends for weekly lunches & dinner dates... a few weeks prior to his diagnosis on Easter day of 2017, I had taken he and Mom to one of my swing dances. He enjoyed the live 40's-style band, the dancing, the outfits, the ambiance... it is one of my last best memories of us all together enjoying an evening out, happy.
My mother though, is tiny. Between she and I, it took both of us coordinating and working together, to get dad up, dressed, fed, showered, and cared for 24/7. We made sure he had healthy, and appetizing meals (since he'd invariably only eat a few bites), easy to wear and comfortable clothes, his favorite programs to watch on tv... we did everything possible to make him comfortable. But thinking back, he did the same for us. Not one time, after we adjusted a blanket, brought him a drink, his medicine, etc... did he forget to say, "Thank you". And not an off the cuff, "thanks". But a genuine, heartfelt, "Thank you, Annie", or "Thank you, Pep." (Mom's nickname was Pepper).
So I want to return that favor.
I want to say to you Dad, Thank YOU.
Thank YOU for giving me a wonderful life. Thank YOU for your patience, and guidance and never-ending love (even though we all know I can be difficult!).
I will keep my promise and take care of Mom, that you can be sure. I'm with her everyday, making sure she's eating, starting a new schedule, sleeping... but she's heartbroken for you, Dad.
Remember when I said, even through his mumblings, I could understand every word he said?
His last words, whispered in my ear, were "love you too".
What a gift.
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