Mindy's Story

When I think of my father, the strongest memories I have are of the way he smelled of Old Spice and the outdoors, the dark mustache he always wore, the warmth of his generous smile, and the deep, soothing timbre of his voice. I once had a substitute teacher in high school who distinctly reminded me of my father. I felt a dual reaction to this realization. A part of me wanted to sit and stare at him forever, soak in the familiarity of him. Another part wanted to curl up in a corner alone and cry because I realized the sharp memory of my father's face was fading and would continue to dull over time. 

I was ten years old when my father started experiencing mysterious pain in his legs. Looking back, I am not certain which is worse: watching someone endure pain without answers  or knowing for certain that they have a rare form of cancer. His diagnoses came somewhere around my eleventh birthday and it seems that I should be able to recollect the exact moment my parents broke the news. When it comes to my father's illness, however, my memory seems to be broken in some way, shattered into disconnected fragments.

The way I remember things, dad endured multiple surgeries over the four years he was ill, as well as chemotherapy and radiation. In some ways, cancer treatment became a regular part of our lives, bringing with it both despair and moments of hope. When I think of those days, I can distinctly hear Dad in the bathroom, retching violently, clearly in agonizing pain. I recall watching him grow pale and frail,  confused as I witnessed someone I saw as so spiritually and intellectually strong become so physically weak. I often try to replace memories of him lying on the floor or curled up on the futon in pain with healthy, vibrant images of my father.

As I've discussed Dad's illness with my family over the years, it's become clear to me that everyone expected dad's death but me. My parents never made empty promises to us. They walked a fine line between helping us to understand the reality of dad's illness without unnecessarily burdening us. I cannot imagine how difficult this must have been for them. To this day, I hate those moments in films when a parent promises their child they'll never leave because I know this is a promise they simply can not keep. 

My father was sick for four years, with frightening news of new tumors, difficult treatments, and times of recovery. His illness became my reality and, while I did not want him to suffer, I was not prepared for his death. I lived from day to day and did not want to imagine life without him. What others recognized as signs of a terminal illness, I must have internalized as another difficult part of the cycle with hope of recovery again. My father suffered a great deal, but we had wonderful, cherished times together as well. I recall watching Dad lose every bit of hair on his body, down to his eyelashes. But then hair started to grow anew, returning to his head soft as a newborn baby's. Hopeful in it's own way.

I, frankly, don't remember a sudden turn in Dad's death, meetings with Hospice, or recognizing that he was letting go. This gap in my memory disturbs me, but I feel helpless in recovering it. Perhaps reality simply became too much to internalize, so I protected myself. This Pollyanna strategy worked in its own way over the next few years, as I tried to comfort myself with platitudes of faith, reassure others that everything was okay, and take on other's happiness as my responsibility, whether they asked me to or not. It eventually failed me in college, when the weight of my feelings became too great of a burden and I struggled through debilitating depression.

I carried guilt over the day of Dad's death for years. I was 14 and hanging out at home when my mom called from a routine check up to tell me that they'd found new tumors on Dad's lungs. To my shock and dismay, they checked him into the hospital and gave him only the weekend to live. Devastated and overwhelmed, I asked my mom if I should tell my sister, McKinzie, this news or wait to let Mom and Dad explain things to her. Mom, in her kind way, relieved me of that burden and told me I could wait. 


McKinzie came home from work and I told her Dad was in the hospital, but nothing else. We didn't rush to the hospital, but actually stopped to grab Taco Bell for lunch on our way. When we arrived laughing at some silliness, Dad was gone. I felt for years that I'd robbed McKinzie, my fellow traveler of those years, of the small bit of preparation she deserved for that moment. Years later, I revealed this regret to her and felt both shocked and relieved to hear that his death did not come as a surprise for her. I, alone, seemed woefully unprepared for Dad's death.

While I wish I could have spoken to my father one last time before he died, I am grateful that I saw his body on that hospital bed. It may sound odd, but I understood in that moment that our spirits and bodies are separate. I kissed his cheek, but knew that his spirit was no longer there. This knowledge confirmed what I believed about life after death, as have sacred, quiet moments when I've known he is not permanently gone. As I've struggled with grief, longed to know him as an adult, and wrestled with the loss of him, this knowledge has sustained me.