{"id":560,"date":"2021-06-24T13:59:22","date_gmt":"2021-06-24T19:59:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.faithrestores.com\/?p=560"},"modified":"2025-04-20T22:58:29","modified_gmt":"2025-04-21T04:58:29","slug":"im-sorry-daddy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.faithrestores.com\/index.php\/im-sorry-daddy\/","title":{"rendered":"I\u2019m sorry Daddy"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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  • \"\"<\/li><\/ul>

    It feels like a jagged nail that keeps catching on things, raw and exposed, but it\u2019s my heart. It can\u2019t be filed down.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    The last time I saw my father, he had his eyes closed and was struggling to breathe. I sat beside him holding his hand and hearing the watery gasp of each breath. He was so thin, all angles and bones. His cheeks were sunken. I thought of pictures I\u2019d seen of people in concentration camps. That is how my father looked.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    His legs were curled up next to him, reducing his once 6\u20192\u201d frame to child-size. Every few hours the hospice nurses would come in and turn him. He wouldn\u2019t let them straighten his legs, so they would just place him on his other side.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    It\u2019s been two months since he died and I can\u2019t get that image of him out of my head: how small he was, how vulnerable. I sat there a long time holding his hand and talking to him. I wish I could say he heard me, but I don\u2019t know.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I wish I had told him sooner what a great dad he was, before death began its crawl up his body. Even a few days earlier he had been more alert. I should have told him then but it didn\u2019t occur to me. Maybe I hadn\u2019t accepted that he was dying. I thought this would be just another hospital stint. He\u2019d be released, so there was no need to say goodbye.<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I should\u2019ve seen it coming, because he was barely eating and no longer able to feed himself. I fed him bits of his breakfast, mostly fruit and grits. He opened his mouth like a baby bird, obedient, compliant, helpless. Then he shook his head no. No more.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    But he could still talk and hear then, so he probably would\u2019ve understood me if I had told him how important he was to me. He was the singular most influential person in my life. He was the one constant figure stretching back to my childhood, the daddy who was always there for me. The daddy who loved me without question. He never wanted anything from me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    A few days before he died, he saw me and knew who I was, so why didn\u2019t I tell him? Instead I stalled. I told myself this was time that needed to be managed. It was temporary. He only needed comforting.<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I climbed in bed behind him, wrapping my arms around him. He felt so slight, his head on my shoulder, his skin paper-thin. We talked while he dozed. Well, mostly I talked and he listened. He was in and out of consciousness but occasionally he would smile. He even laughed a few times.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I opened my mouth and words came out like water from a faucet. \u201cRemember when you bought me my first new car, Dad?\u201d I said. \u201cIt was a stick-shift and I didn\u2019t know how to drive it, so you drove it home for me. Then over the weekend, you taught me how to drive it.\u201d I remember the car\u2014a blue Chevy Sprint, 3 cylinder hatchback. Toy-sized car but I loved it because it was new and it was mine.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    As I lay there with my father, memories kept popping into my mind. So many firsts. He taught me to ride a bike. He took me to school on my first day and stood there stoic in his top coat while I cried. It must\u2019ve been so hard for him seeing me crying and calling out, \u201cDaddy, daddy,\u201d knowing he had to leave me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    He brought a teddy bear to the hospital when I had my tonsils out, and stood there comforting me after I threw up ice cream. I was around four years old.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    He was the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny and Santa Claus, silently slipping money under my pillow and leaving me baskets and presents. On Valentine\u2019s Day, he would give me a small heart-shaped box of candy and a card saying I was his best girl. I felt so special, so cherished. I don\u2019t remember ever feeling like that again, not even in adulthood. Especially not in adulthood.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    As he was in and out of sleep, I prattled on about his favorite foods. Peanut butter, sausage (links) and an expertly-grilled filet (rare). Banana cream pie, vanilla ice cream, milk shakes and carrot cake. Corned beef hash and eggs benedict. Breakfast was the best meal of the day!\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    After he had his teeth pulled, his food preferences changed. He got stressed about eating things that were difficult to chew. When he lived with us, I made his new favorite breakfast every morning. It was always the same thing: peanut butter toast and a smoothie, usually strawberry and banana.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    He would sit at the table with his newspaper. I\u2019d bring his coffee\u2014extra sweet (three sugars) and cream\u2014and then the rest of his breakfast. He always said, \u201cThank you, Baby\u201d and \u201cGood smoothie!\u201d<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    He was so appreciative, so gentle and complimentary. I\u2019d look at him sitting there at the table, happily drinking his smoothie and reading the paper. This rush would come over me, building from the inside and infusing my whole body. I\u2019m not sure what it was, but maybe it was joy. It was the closest thing I\u2019ve ever felt to joy.<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    It felt so good to see my father happy, relieved of the stress and pain he endured for years. Watching him at the kitchen table or sitting on the couch holding my little dog, Piper, while he read his book. It felt so\u2026 right. Something clicked inside me with a resounding snap, perfectly in place.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    And a selfish part of me said, \u201cYou\u2019ve finally done something right, Eileen. Something good.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    My life became all about my father, the routine of his day. He didn\u2019t veer much from his schedule.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>He usually got up at around 7:00 am. I\u2019d be in my room making my face and listening for the sound of his walker on the floor. As soon as I heard it, I\u2019d come out to see him standing there in his pjs. He\u2019d look over at me, waiting for direction.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u201cGood morning, Dad! Why don\u2019t you sit down and I\u2019ll get your coffee.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u201cGreat!\u201d He\u2019d say. \u201cThank you, Baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    Sometimes I\u2019d finish my makeup, get dressed and still not hear the walker. I\u2019d go out to the kitchen and check a few times until he arrived looking distressed. \u201cI overslept big time!\u201d he\u2019d say.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    Chuckling to myself, I\u2019d say, \u201cIt\u2019s ok, Dad. There is nowhere you have to go right now, so you\u2019re fine. Why don\u2019t you have a seat and I\u2019ll get your coffee and newspaper?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    But then everything changed. He went into the hospital and when he came out, he was in a wheelchair. Then I could no longer manage him so we moved him to a facility that provided a higher level of care. He would get anxious about not getting his coffee. I\u2019d come to visit and he\u2019d tell me he hadn\u2019t gotten it. He\u2019d sound angry, unlike himself, put upon and paranoid. I\u2019d ask a staff member and she\u2019d say he did have coffee just a few minutes ago.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I learned there was no point in telling him that, because he didn\u2019t remember. It would only frustrate him and make him feel small. He stopped remembering things and there was no one to reassure him that he was ok. There was no way to tell him he was getting what he needed. There were a lot of patients, some even worse than my father, and only a few beleaguered employees.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I wanted to tell them how special my father was, how much people loved him, how charismatic and dynamic and handsome he had been. I wanted them to know when my dad retired, I watched the men who worked for him cry as they talked about how honored they were to have been on his team.<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I wanted to say, you don\u2019t understand.\u00a0This is my father.<\/i>\u00a0He used to bring me Suzy-Qs home from the grocery store. When he worked on the pipeline, he saved change from playing poker and gave it to me when he came home. I had a big jar of quarters for the pinball machine.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    He bought my sisters and me \u201cthingies\u201d we needed (because we were too embarrassed to say maxi-pads or tampons), never protesting. He taught me how to play poker and black jack.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    My dad carried me to bed when I was little girl and rubbed my back until I fell asleep. Sometimes I would fake falling asleep on the couch, because I felt so comforted and safe when he tucked me in.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    When I had a nightmare, I would stumble down the hall to my parents\u2019\u00a0<\/span>room and climb into bed with my dad. He would hold me and tell me everything was going to be ok.\u00a0<\/span>Sometimes he would go look for monsters under my bed to make sure they were gone, that I was safe.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    My dad waved to truck drivers and said to be nice to them, because they had a hard job. Once on a road trip we stopped for gas and I watched him give a man money. We didn\u2019t really have money to spare, but the man looked like he needed help.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I wanted to explain all this to the employees at the memory care facilty, but it was too much, too late. All they saw was a shrunken old man in a wheelchair complaining about his coffee, his shirt stained with food, his swollen feet bursting out of ratty slippers.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    Today is my birthday and my father\u2019s birthday. My mind is filled with images, some hazy and some vivid. Shared birthday cakes and rooms filled with balloons and my dad and I sitting at a table together smiling at the camera. Our special day. He picks me up and kisses me and tells me I\u2019m his special girl, his little Puddin.<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    One side of our cake would be his (vanilla) and the other mine (chocolate). I have pictures of us wearing party hats and my dad hugging me or kissing me on the cheek. I am smiling broadly, so happy and proud to be my daddy\u2019s girl. This was the best gift I could ever have\u2014to share a birthday with him. Just us.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I can\u2019t get it out of my mind\u2014the first birthday without him. No visiting and bringing him a piece of cake. No watching him open a gift\u2014ones I had to open the past few years because his arthritic fingers fumbled with the wrapping.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    All the phone calls. Every year on our birthday he would call. No matter where I was\u2014what state I was in\u2014he would call. He\u2019d say, \u201cHappy birthday, Pud!\u201d And I\u2019d say it back to him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    Every year except last year. Last year he forgot it was his birthday. When I reminded him, he said, \u201cOh ok. How old am I now?\u201d\u00a0<\/span>I watched him open his gift. And for the first time, he didn\u2019t remember it was my birthday too.\u00a0<\/span>A sadness engulfed me. I felt the loosening of a bond we had for so long. It unraveled like a kite string, slipping from my fingers and disappearing into the air.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span>I don\u2019t know how to have a birthday without my dad, how to celebrate another year of my life without mourning his death.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I don\u2019t know how to accept that in the last moments of my father\u2019s life, there is so much I didn\u2019t tell him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I\u2019m sorry, Daddy. I\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t tell you what a wonderful father you were and how I loved you with my whole heart. It was the biggest, purest love I\u2019ve ever felt.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I\u2019m sorry you had so much pain in your life. I wish you had known more joy. If I could do it all over again, Daddy, I\u2019d ask God to bring me to you sooner.\u00a0\u00a0I\u2019d ask him to let me help you earlier in your life. I\u2019d ask him to show you that you are his beloved son, his beautiful child, and with Him you will never know pain again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    I\u2019m so sorry, Daddy. I wish I could hug you one more time.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

    \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    It feels like a jagged nail that keeps catching on things, raw and exposed, but it\u2019s my heart. It can\u2019t be filed down.\u00a0 \u00a0 The last time I saw my father, he had his eyes closed and was struggling to breathe. I sat beside him holding his hand and hearing the watery gasp of each 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