Recently, my brother shared a piece that he wrote about our dad. It is one of the most heartfelt, poignant things I've ever read. Beautiful, succinct, and touching, may you be blessed by this lovely writing:
His Final Lesson
“Rick, come here.” Typically, words and even commands spoken
by him did not elicit a heightened reaction from me, but there was a specific
tone that made this sound different, possibly more imperative.
Please don’t believe that I am someone who is not reactive.
My main priority in life shifted from one of being cared for to being the
caregiver. I still wonder how I took that responsibility without being more
overwhelmed or more mystified. Because it was me – the boy who could not go to
school without fear of being away from his parents; the boy who crumbled at any
potential illness – my own or theirs; the boy who could not stick to any
activities such as Boy Scouts or band. Yet, when the time came, I gracefully
accepted the role as the caregiver, the boy now who could be called man.
Although I did not see it, I embraced it. His lesson was that of a teacher –
quietly teaching valuable lessons of being a man without me even knowing that
it was occurring.
The response to my expected question “What’s wrong?” was one
of unknown pain that was to eventually take him away from me. We started what
would be our last phone call to 911 and subsequent collecting of the home items
for another hospital stay.
Despite my fears, years of concern based on the reality of
mortality being a few steps away, possibly a few minutes away due to him not
being in touch with his body or his needs associated with the plethora of
health issues related to heart trouble, I always reacted with a calm nature
and, in my heart, believed that it was not the end. Regardless of the severity
of some of the hospital stays or diagnoses, I must admit that I never believed
it would end. Naivety is not usually my forte. But with him, I always felt like
there was another day, another month, another year. This was a testament to
another lesson – the lesson was grace regardless of the surroundings and
circumstances.
The ensuing diagnosis, required surgery, and many ups and
downs in his physical and mental health took a toll on all of us. It only
lasted three weeks, but felt like many months had gone by. He was tired, frail,
and, no doubt disappointed that his body was failing, but he never complained
and never once did he say he was in pain.
I was young and full of anxiety. My concerns ranged from my
own physical health through the rest of the family being ill or diseased. He
did not understand mental health issues such as this. He had dealt with others’
issues, but he never quite understood the “why” behind them. Yet, when I needed
him to be there to tuck me back in at night or to pick me up from school when
the worry was beyond normal, he was there. He never made me feel bad for the
worry, or for being bullied, or for the irrational concerns about death,
monsters, and such. This lesson was to
understand and accept, sometimes even if you don’t truly understand.
I watched him in bed daily – some days intubated, some days
awake and able to talk and listen. Reality of this being our final hospital
stay became more and more tangible as the weakness grew and no interventions
had a lasting effect. A doctor had called me and sternly said, “We have to be
open and prepared if God is calling him” since some of their interventions were
not having that magical effect we had come to expect. Still, the grace of
handling this without falling apart had overtaken me. I cried, I begged to have
it be different, I used up my bag of tricks that had always kept his quality of
life high, but this time was to end in an unfamiliar way and I was letting that
reality make me stronger.
I had not been formally acquainted with death. I had heard
stories of all of the loss that my family had handled, but most of this
occurred before I was born. Distant relatives, friends of the family, and
others that we had known were gone and the sting had been there, but it was a
fleeting pain, yet all their memories would remain fond to me. His mother had
died many years ago and I watched him handle it with quiet compassion and
reverence for who she was to him and to others. His lesson was unending love
and the value of legacy.
I received a call from the hospital that he denied
intubation. He was still present, but the intubation would be necessary to
continue life. I had no choice but to go and find out if this was truly the
end. I cannot recall my thoughts on my way to this visit, probably an amalgam
of potential outcomes at that point. I laid eyes upon him in his bed, the way
that I had for these few weeks, and even hours prior, but I knew this held more
weight than those other visits. Upon seeing me, I should have known that he
could not lay eyes on me and say “okay, I give up”.
Each time that we had a “scare”, I suppose it was evident
that I was giving every fiber of my being to positive outcomes, never once
admitting that there were any options beyond continued life. And I lived that
way from day to day, for many years. Regardless of how high he had gotten in
age, there never was a day that I let on that he was aging. Regardless of how
he was unable to do certain jobs or activities, I never let on that he was more
limited. I was his biggest cheerleader. I had gone from being the frightened
little boy to his champion in all ways that I could. There were ways that he
adapted to still be functional and express his love, despite any limitations. This could also be attributed to him – the
lesson of adapting to your environment and accepting change.
This visit lasted only about twenty-five minutes. He would
allow them to place the ventilator back on. We had moments of communication, despite
this final intubation. So many words were spoken before this point, yet it was
down to a few final lessons. Though it was only a few short years ago, the
memory of all words has faded a bit. However, significant words were spoken at
that time. I told him that we would not torture him anymore after this attempt.
I wanted him to know that he had fought hard, but I also wanted him to know
that I, the one who had fought so hard to keep him alive for so many years, was
giving him permission to no longer suffer or fight, when it was so clear that
he was ready to let go. Our last
exchange was one in which I initiated my expression of love. In all of my years
of life, the words had never left my mouth toward him and neither him for me.
It was clear as day, though, that was how we felt. But, on this night, I felt
that it was time. I knew it was the right time. And, he reciprocated.
His last lesson was finding out if I could be not just a
man, but the man; the man who could let him go despite giving so much to ensure
that he lived; the man who could be strong enough to use words of love because
the actions were no longer possible. This lesson was his most valuable, because
we both needed it to move on; for him to move on past this life and for me to
move on past him to a life which would have to garner new meaning and
understanding and use the tools provided since childbirth to continue the cycle
of love and kindness.
Author: Matthew R. Mattia (Rick)
