August 2, 2015 . . .
I sit here in a chair
in the corner of my dad’s lavish room, darkened by nightfall. A single
candle sits on the mantle, illuminating the room, reflecting off the full
height mirrors that encompass a king size bed which sleeps my courageous dad.
Two puppies lie on the floor by his side. Always by his side. One
of the puppies, Squeak, the boy, has an undoubted sixth sense of the pain my
dad is enduring. His tail is normally up and wagging frantically, but in
this nervous time his tail points down, still, flat, between his little back
legs.
My dad lies in bed in
and out of a daze, sometimes while sleeping, sometimes while awake. His
breath is occasional and sharp. Michelle darts in and out of the room,
making sure my dad is ok, and comforting me. She is strong. She
holds herself together so well and stays positive for my dad. As she
leaves the room I hear her wander further away and break down into tears.
Her staccato breaths and cries echo throughout the hollow silent house.
Michelle firms up her
voice to dial hospice. We are told to administer morphine and drops to
ease my dad’s breathing. The two puppies jump on the bed and lay down
beside my dad as the four of us sit by his side ready for another four-hourly
medication. I sit down at the foot of the bed, hand on the bridge of my
dad’s foot. Michelle gently waking my dad to administer the medicine.
Medicine.
Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I question the medical field.
Sometimes I wonder if medicine does more harm than good. Two years ago my
dad was his happy, charming, witty, intelligent, cheeky self, life of the
party, dressed to the nth degree, dancing the night away. He was
continually building the oasis that is his home and a business that has thrived
for years through word of mouth for a quality and perfection of work my dad
expects of himself. So I wonder what if. What if we skipped or
reduced chemotherapy? What if we continued as is without it? I
suspect that had we found out about the developing cancer sooner, my dad would
have been on chemo sooner. The chemo would have done its damage
sooner. My dad may have faced the stage he’s at now, sooner.
Having said that, the
morphine has helped. My dad asks for us, puppies and all, to clear the
room so he can sleep. I sit outside the bedroom door on the floor
continuing my inner thoughts as I type, free-writing. Michelle sits down
in the hall across from me, trying to stay strong, playing with the puppies to
lift their tails.
Every day I sit by my
dad’s side, mostly in silence. His spirits are low in the morning but
gradually pick up throughout the day. It’s as if every day he wakes up
and realizes that this is not just a bad dream. I am at a loss. I
don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I am a man of few
words. I try to tell my dad what’s going on in my life, with my job, or
talk about sports, anything to try to clear his mind. My dad’s expression
is blank, unreadable. He could take down the World Series of Poker with
his poker face. I continue to tell stories, some new, some
reminiscent. I wonder if my dad is interested or processing.
Since I’ve grown up
our conversations have always been about work hard, play harder. My dad
simply wanted to know how school or work was going, if I was out and about
partying like I should, and the latest details of any ladies in my life, always
wanting me carry on the lady charming he instilled in me but nothing too
serious. I tell stories. I show him old photos of us. I show
him new photos of projects I’ve worked on, places I’ve been, and, probably
getting the biggest reaction out of him, photos of girls I have dated.
Like my dad, our
Virgo methodical nature and strive for perfection sometimes gets the better of
us. He has high expectations for me, never quite revealing how proud of
me he is. Like my dad, we have no problem complementing and showing
complete chivalry to a lady, but never quite revealing our appreciation and
admiration of each other. I hear through others often how complimentary
and proud my dad is of me, and it warms my heart.
So in a way, this is
my means of expressing how I feel about him. I can hardly muster up a
word to say face to face, but I could sit and type pages on how cool, enviable,
and hip my dad is, despite him still believing a fax machine is the be all end
all technology. He has a natural charm and could woo any woman tearing up
the floor boards off the dance floor, leaving the muscle men in the corner
wondering why their muscles aren’t working. To this day, he still
mentions going to places I’ve never heard of, seeing things I didn’t know
existed, and done things I never dreamed of. At a young 58, he has
already lived twice the life of those twice his age.
I have not lost
someone this close in my life. It still doesn’t feel real. I don’t
know if I’m handling it as I should, doing what I should, saying what I
should. I process things internally and don’t show much emotion. My
dad is the same. When we’re sat side by side, not a spoken word, I know
my dad is analyzing and processing every little detail like me. My dad
will never sit at peace until he knows the million things always turning in his
mind are accounted for and sorted. Now, I know this list is shorter, the
essentials. I know his deepest concerns and natural caring nature lie
within his amazing pint-sized wife Michelle and his muscley 6’3 of a son.
I try to reassure my
dad that everything will be ok, especially with his rock, Michelle.
Michelle is family now, Michelle is a Pye, and Michelle will be looked after by
me and the amazing friends, puppies, kittens, and support that surrounds
her. I tell my dad that Michelle will meet her little Johnny Pye
grandchild one day, which I am now on the clock to deliver all of a sudden.
But the truth is,
Johnny Pye lives on in us all. He’s changed peoples’ lives and brought
out the fun side of things. Whether my dad and I are near or far apart,
speak often or occasional, going through good times or tough, he’s always with
me. Even my mom says often, particularly when I pull a face, “You look
just like dad then!” To which I reply by pulling another face “just like
dad”.
Normally, my writing
is very structured, logically ordered. But my mind is in chaos, random
thoughts comprise my mind. I don’t have answers. I don’t have
direction. I don’t have a message. I just write freely to try to
put everything into context. What can I do? What can I say?
Don’t leave me dad . . .
Love Lee
