Sunday, July 1, 2018

About My Dad

My dad and I got together for a late afternoon lunch date on Friday afternoon. We hadn't spent a significant amount of time together since I got married, so the chance to catch up at our two favorite places, (Panera Bread and Barnes &  Noble) was the perfect way to end a long workweek. So much has changed for our family since Dad and I last had a meal out together.

When we were at Barnes & Noble, I took the escalator to the second floor to find a few books in the Christian Living section. Dad promised to wait for me on the main floor. Once I found my selections, I moved to step onto the down escalator, and my body rebelled. I couldn't see where one stair ended and another began, and my brain no longer trusted the step that I was in the middle of taking.  I twitched and pitched forward, nearly falling, as the stairs continued to roll beneath me. Scared, I jumped back and away from the escalator, and began to panic.

I decided to circle the floor to find an elevator, but after three rounds, I couldn't see where it was located. I couldn't find a salesperson, either. Anxiety and embarrassment flooded through my adrenaline. "I'm stuck on the second floor of a bookstore!" I told myself, momentarily thinking that it really might not be the WORST place to be stranded forever. But I had to get down to the main floor sooner rather than later.

I needed my dad.

I peeked over the railing to see the first floor beneath me. There was my dad, tall and relaxed, his arms folded over his chest, his snow-white hair like a beacon in the store light. He was watching out for me, just like he has been watching out for me my entire life.

When he turned his face in my direction, I waved my hand in a quick, "Come here!" motion, and he strode towards the escalator.

"Couldn't you find your book?" he asked once we met at the top.

"No, I found it," I answered.  "I'm really embarrassed, but...I'm scared to go down the escalator. I almost fell, and now I'm too scared, and I need your help."

"Oh! You don't need to be embarrassed about that, sweetie!" Dad assured. "Tell me what you need."

"If you'll just let me take your arm to steady myself and then tell me when to step down, I think that'll be great," I explained.

Dad offered his right arm, and as I rested my left hand on top of it, he said in his gentle tone, "I'll never stop being your dad, you know. You don't need to be afraid to ask me for anything."

Those words would have been dear and cherished at any time in my life, yet hearing them on that day held significant meaning

Two months ago, my dad was diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. At the time of diagnosis, his life expectancy was predicted to be another three to five years. Since then, there is hope that he could live longer -- maybe ten to fourteen years -- but there's such uncertainty in every single aspect of the diagnosis, that in my mind, it just feels like a numbers game.

What we do know for certain is that this diagnosis will end my father's life, and though he and his doctors are doing everything in their power to impede the disease's progression, when the time comes, Dad's death will be a long process, and it will be incredibly painful.

"It's weird, y'know, having this knowledge about how I'm going to die," Dad said to me earlier in the day as we sat in Panera Bread and talked about everything from work, to summer plans, to what it means to grieve a future death.

We cried together a few times in this conversation, and it was healing and relieving for me. I haven't been confronting news of Dad's diagnosis in my every day, but there are moments when I am stopped and stilled by the enormous weight of uncertainty, the real possibility that I may not see my father become the retired old man that he wants to be, that my mom will lose her life partner, and that these things will happen sooner than any of us planned. There are times when grief sneaks up in uninvited spaces -- a few harsh words towards my husband, or unnecessary anxiety about a simple mistake at work. To sit and look into my Dad's eyes and speak about how we're processing what's happening to his body and how it will affect our family, was therapeutic.

"I just don't want to remembered as an angry, dying man, Cassaundra," Dad continued. "I don't want this illness to make me some guy who's pissed off at the world simply because he's dying and it isn't fair."

"You won't be, Dad." I stated.

Whether it's five, ten or -- Lord willing -- fifteen years from now when my Dad does pass away, he wil not be remembered for anger or bitterness, because that's not in his character. Jeff Bell will be remembered exactly as he was in that store on Friday -- a man who deeply cares for his family, who always holds his kids' safety and interests at heart, and who is willing to help in any situation.

So begins our walk into the valley of the shadow of death. And if, during this journey, I'm afraid to take shaky, uneven steps, if I am afraid of falling forward into despair, I know that my dad will offer me his arm; he will be there to steady me, to talk with me, just like on that escalator. And I'll be there to steady him, and we will cry and grieve and celebrate life together, all of us, as a family.

Together, we are learning what it means to grieve monumental loss, even as we still live.

1 comment:

  1. Very powerful Cassaundra!! Life does happen and none of us have a choice. But, we do have a choice of how we react to it.

    Bonnie

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