When My Dad Died

I remember there was blood in his urine.

I don’t remember if he, my mom, or my brother the doctor told me about the blood in his urine, but that’s the very first thing I remember.

I remember that weeks, maybe months, after the blood in the urine, my brother the doctor told me that weeks, maybe months, before the blood in the urine, my dad had told him he’d lost some weight. My brother had told him not to worry about it. Weight fluctuates.

I remember my brother the doctor feeling guilty about not paying closer attention to our dad’s weight loss. He thought, and maybe still thinks, that if he’d told my dad to go see someone immediately, things may have gone a different direction.

I remember feeling optimistic when it started. There were a few spots on the kidney but no signs it had spread. My dad was strong. He worked out six days a week, skied more than twenty times a year, and ate one square of chocolate every night for dessert.

I remember still feeling optimistic even after one of the MRIs showed spots in his chest. I remember discussions about chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and I was confident that my stubborn 78-year-old dad would beat it.

I remember feeling less optimistic after a conversation with my brother the doctor. He said the goal was not to beat the cancer; it was to give my dad two or three more years.

Two or three more years, that’s it?

I remember one of the first side-effects of the treatment: sores all over the inside of his mouth. He ate nothing but smoothies for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember talking to my brothers much. I remember talking to my mom a little. I remember talking to my dad a lot. I had close to an hour in the car every day after work so I put on my headset around 4pm and called him from my pre-Bluetooth 1998 Toyota Camry. We probably talked about my job. We probably talked about my kids. We probably talked about the cancer. I don’t remember. I only remember that the Camry was beige.

I don’t remember visiting Denver at all. I don’t remember if we went there for Thanksgiving, Winter Break, neither, or both. I think my mom and dad visited us in Chicago because I remember my dad wearing black Skechers, sprinting down the sidewalk, and pulling my laughing, screaming 2-year-old twins in a red wagon. I remember thinking that I would never run that fast down any sidewalk, I certainly wouldn’t do it if I were 78, I definitely wouldn’t do it if I were pulling two toddlers in a wagon, and I for sure wouldn’t do it if I were dying of cancer. I remember feeling proud and scared.

I can’t remember any other side-effects of the treatment. I’m pretty sure he didn’t lose his hair. I don’t remember if he experienced nausea. I think he was fatigued. I’m sure there were lots of side-effects and I’m sure my family in Denver told me about all of them but I don’t remember a single one.

How can I not remember any of a year’s worth of side-effects?

I don’t remember things getting worse; I only remember when they became unbearable. A tumor grew out of my dad’s nose and I remember that’s when he decided to call it quits. My memory is that he drove himself to the hospice.

I remember that about a week later, my wife, my four kids, and I flew to Denver to say goodbye. I think it was a Thursday, maybe a Friday. I think we went straight from the airport to the hospice. My dad was in his bed, maybe sitting up, maybe wearing plaid pajamas. My mom was in the room. I think both of my brothers were there. We hugged and kissed my dad. He hugged us and kissed us. Everyone cried.

I remember my dad always said he was going to work until the day he died. I think I remember him sitting on the patio outside his room, at a small table with an umbrella to protect him from the August sun, surrounded by a bunch of manila folders.

But I don’t know how that’s possible because the night we arrived, or maybe the next day, my dad went to sleep and never woke up again. I remember thinking how cool it was that he waited for us to say goodbye. My wife and kids flew back to Chicago a day or two later but I stayed to be with him, my brothers, and my mom until he died.

After he went to sleep, there was no more eating or drinking, just lots of morphine. I remember my brother the doctor asking our dad’s doctor to “make him as comfortable as possible.” I remember thinking that that was the euphemism of all euphemisms: We were clearly asking the doctor to end my dad’s life.

I remember feeling proud that after two, maybe three, days, my dad’s heart was still beating. He was so strong, I remember. He didn’t need food or water, and neither the cancer nor the morphine could kill him. His body was refusing to let him die.

I remember the funeral a few days later. My wife and kids were there.

Wait, did they really fly back to Chicago and then back again to Denver for the funeral?

I remember my brothers giving speeches but I can’t remember anything they said. I remember that in my speech, I compared myself to my dad. He loved sports and I love sports. He loved dirty jokes and I love dirty jokes. He didn’t care what other people thought and I don’t care what other people think. I remember not feeling embarrassed about choking on my tears.

I remember my four kids and my two nieces sitting in the front row, but maybe my 2-year-olds weren’t there. I think the girls were wearing dresses with flowers. When I cried, the big kids cried. When the big kids cried, the little kids cried. I remember at first thinking that some of the tears felt inauthentic but then I remember thinking that there’s nothing more naturally contagious than laughter and tears. My kids didn’t fully understand they had lost their grandpa but they knew their dad was sad.

I don’t remember much after that. I vaguely remember the casket being lowered into the ground and thinking that, god damn it, my dad had had ten more good years in him.

I remember flying back to Chicago and burying myself in my very new, very challenging job.

I remember that in every teaching job I ever had, my dad always came to watch me teach. He shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. He sat with and worked alongside my students. He smiled up at me from his desk.

A few months into that job, my mom came to watch me teach. She shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. She sat with and worked alongside my students. She smiled up at me from her desk. I remember feeling happy she was there and thinking it was weird that my dad wasn’t.