Death of the Father

I looked at my watch. 5:00 PM, Wednesday. A little more than two years ago, 5:00 PM on a Wednesday would have meant that I was sitting in my office prioritizing my Franklin Planner task list for the next day, and contemplating my walk to BART. Today I’m speeding across the Mexican countryside in my pathfinder, returning from a neighboring village. The back of the 4 X 4 is loaded with building materials for my ranchito. Dozing in the passenger seat is my attractive, 28 year old Mexican boyfriend, his slender light brown hand resting on my thigh as the Three Tenors blares on the CD player. Surreal. It is hard to believe that a life can change so dramatically, so quickly.

Months have passed since the paragraph above was written. It seems that when happiness comes, the balance of grief is not far behind.

First, let me thank everyone for your kind words of condolence after the death of my father. While I wept at my screen, it was really therapy. Since his death, I’ve been in a rather poor space. A sort of fog that then became an illness. After antibiotics, antidepressants and lots of bed rest, I’m a little better now. But the grieving is far from over and I have good days and bad.

Dad came to me with fluid in his lungs, after a fall in Eureka that cracked one of his ribs. Shortly after he arrived, he developed bronchitis. We cured that but his energy and breathing never recovered. And then his mind began to play tricks on him.

“Amigo, who were all those people here last night?”
“What people dad?”
“There were all these people dressed in black, wandering around the casita.”
“Rod, Christine and I were watching a movie down stairs, otherwise no one was here.”
“It seemed so real.”

And another day:

“Mary, get that information they left. Look in the drawers. It was printed on a tee shirt.” Dad said in English to his nurse who speaks none.
“Dad, what are you looking for?”
“This morning two personal trainers got out of my shower. One was a beautiful blond and the other a dark man. They rested a bit, probably because they needed to after the shower, if you know what I mean. The man told me about a gym membership with only a few more spaces left. I think it might be a good deal. The information was printed on a tee shirt that must be around here someplace.”
“Dad, I’m having a hard time believing that two personal trainers took a shower here.”
He looked at Mary and smiled. “She knows more than she’s telling.”
Mary smiled and looked a little confused.
“Here’s the deal. No matter how good the program was, we’re not signing up. You’re not in any shape to go to a gym. You can’t even get up and down the stairs. I want you to start walking on the roof and getting your strength back. Once you’re in shape, we can look into going to a gym and I’m sure that what ever deal they were offering, we can find a comparable one once you’re ready.”
“O.k. Amigo.”

Shortly thereafter we moved Dad downstairs. The weather had warmed up plus the casita was rented so we didn’t have any choice. He only made it down the first few steps and after that, Rod, Mary and I carried him to his bed. His legs just gave out. He had not a lick of energy to spare.

We now had an oxygen tank (which after days of looking all over San Miguel, found the requisite regulator two blocks from the house in an unmarked new business), a humidifier and around the clock nursing care. We didn’t like the attitude of the first doctor so we did some research, with the help of a retired U.S. doctor now living in Mexico, and found a geriatric specialist. Dr. Jessica had a great bedside manner, looked him over far more thoroughly than the previous doctor, and agreed to take the case.

He was sleeping a great deal. I told one of the nurses that it must be pretty boring, sitting there while he is sleeping and they should all feel free to step out of the room, read a book, watch T.V., whatever. Rodrigo translated, “Sometimes he reaches out for their hand in his sleep and they want to be there for him.” At night, one of the nurses slept on a mattress on the floor next to his bed.

“Sometimes I can’t tell them apart”, Dad told me (they’re all sisters), “But the one during the day gives the best massage.”

We put Dad in a chair while we placed the water mattress on the bed. “When can I get back in bed?” he asked.
“All you’re doing is lying in bed. That is why we need this special mattress. You’re getting bed sores.”
“Well I think I deserve it today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I found 20 jackets for the Australians.”
“World War II,” I thought to myself. And as we lifted him back into the bed he said, “You can just put the lamb here in my lap.”
“What lamb is that dad?”
“Susan was here earlier with a lamb.”
“Well, we don’t have any lambs here right now but I can provide you with a very affectionate cocker spaniel if you’d like.”
He smiled, “That’s ok.”

The night he died, two nurses, Rodrigo and Christine were there. We went into the room. He was sleeping but every breath sounded labored. “I don’t really know what a death rattle sounds like,” I said, “But if you were to ask me what he is doing right now is pretty much what I’ve always imagined.”
“Yes” was all that Christine said.

We were sitting in the kitchen moments later when one of the nurses rushed in and told us to call the doctor immediately. We ran to my father’s bedroom and I saw the head nurse (Celia) with a stethoscope on his chest shaking her head. I fell to my knees and grasped his hand as he exhaled his last breath. I wept like a Greek widow. (In fact, if Greek widows want grieving lessons, I can provide them.) I didn’t care who was there, who was listening, whatever. This was the man who was my pillar in life, the man who had come back from every former death scare and continued to be my father. I kept thinking, “We’re not done! You haven’t lived at the house I’m building for you!” Celia held his mouth closed as I wept and wailed.

The rest of the night is kind of a fog. It was nearly midnight on a work night as friends began to fill the house. I looked over as Cynthia and Victor lifted their pant legs and compared pajamas. Cynthia’s were a flower pattern while Victor had little space men. The doctor arrived, the men from the crematorium, Rodrigo handled it all as I stared into my wine glass. The other nurses arrived.

The next morning the doctor came back with all the requisite paperwork. I was a jellyfish in bed. Rodrigo took care of everything.

That afternoon Marcos called. “We’re with your dad. They are about to cremate him. Do you want to come?”
“No. I want to remember him like he was. I don’t want that image.”
“I understand. And I want you to know that Mary is here. She has never left him. She hasn’t slept all night.”

And that night people came with food and support. The nurses requested photos of Don Carlos that I printed off of my computer. The next day they delivered his ashes in a simple wood box. It seemed so light compared to the man that we carrier to bed only a few days before.

A few weeks later Rodrigo and I went to see his new nephew in Cuernavaca, and to meet his parents. I had a little meltdown when I realized that we were going to have to visit the family for a third time. “We’re not going to see them tomorrow so we need to have dinner with them tonight.”

I’d already endured two meetings. There was the initial meeting and then the “comida” the next day where everyone ran to visit with the new baby upstairs and left me alone downstairs. No one in the family speaks English and my Spanish was barely good enough for a wine conversation with the ex-monk father while the bible-pounding Catholic mother served the meal. But then I had a revelation of sorts. I’m whining about meeting the parents while Rodrigo, at 28 years old, has dealt with dying, death, doctors, funeral homes, etc., all for me, and has not missed a beat. I’m stressing over meeting the rather un-excepting family. Let’s put things in perspective.

When we got to the hotel I closed the door and fell to my knees. “I need to beg your forgiveness. After all that you have done for me I was so selfish. I know that this is important to you and I have been a bad partner. Please forgive me.” Rodrigo pulled me to my feet. “Don’t ever do that again. I know what you’re going through. You don’t need to apologize.”

Where are we now? As I was leaving the ranchito, Mary, my father’s primary caregiver whom we’ve hired to manage the house, said something in Spanish to me about my father’s ashes.
“Rod, can you come here for a minute. I don’t understand what Mary is saying about dad’s ashes.”
Mary repeated what she’d said to Rodrigo.
“She wants to say goodbye to his ashes.”
I took the box out of my bag and set it on the table. Mary bent down and kissed the box, “Adios Don Carlos”, she said while patting the box. I then fell apart for a spell.

Now I’m off the antibiotics, off the antidepressants and am taking care of business. I’ve brought my dad’s ashes to the U.S., done my taxes and, as the trustee, I am working on settling the estate. I only gave myself 10 days in the U.S. Otherwise, fax, email, etc., will have to suffice.

Rod and I are living at the ranchito with six dogs and one cat. (He is not only a vet but a handler and a breeder.) Building and infrastructure challenges persist, as does the random brush fire. The rainy season is around the corner. It can’t come soon enough for me although I know that it will present yet new challenges.