When I was really young, my dad drove a rusty truck. I was so embarrassed to be seen in it. As a six year old, if we were driving through the neighborhood, and I saw another kid on the street, I would duck so that no one would see me. Like many kids, I didn't understand money, so I wondered why we couldn't have certain things. I was soon told about how we had family in Vietnam, and we sent money to them every month. A little money to us can go a long way in a third world country. (Is that phrase PC? Sorry if it's not.) I learned that through the money we were sending to our family, my cousins were able to attend school, and my aunts and uncles were able to improve their homes. This changed my entire perspective on things, and it made me see that our sacrifice meant big things for our family.
My dad came to America after the Vietnam War ended. He was in the South Vietnamese army, and when they surrendered, it was completely mayhem. Soldiers were being sent to "reeducation" camps, and so, on a whim decision, my dad decided to jump on a boat and, then, on a plane. There were four planes going to different states, and the most popular destination was, of course, California. But the line for Pennsylvania was very short, so again, on a whim decision, my dad decided to go to PA. And that's the short story of how my dad landed here. By the way, in the mayhem following the South Vietnamese surrender, my dad took off his uniform. He came to this country, basically, in his underwear. He had absolutely nothing. Probably a rusty truck was not quite so embarrassing to him. After his death, we are now left with a home, a nice truck, and retirement accounts. Will there be any retirement account money left after we pay the hospital bills? Probably not. But my dad has come a long way since coming here in his underwear in 1975.
My dad had a lot of files for us to sort through after his death, Most of them were not his. My dad took care of his brother's and sister's families, so our home held all of their tax files, immigration papers, etc. When my dad found his family in Vietnam, over ten years after he had left, my dad signed up to have his youngest brother and his sister come to America. I was probably about three years old when that happened, and my uncle didn't come until I was maybe 16. It takes A LOT of paperwork and money to bring family over, but my dad handled all of it. He opened up our home for them to live until they got on their feet, and he found them jobs. My dad was no hero. He was not perfect, but he is highly regarded in our family because he took care of everyone.
My dad was never warm and friendly. He was not affectionate. I often say how I have daddy issues, and I believe that it is true, though perhaps a slight exaggeration compared to people who have serious daddy issues. But my dad always took care of us. Going to work every day, paying the bills, taking the trash out... these are the things that gave my dad his self-worth as a man. His presence is certainly missed in these areas, but the void that I feel is having that person to take care of me. I know, I'm an adult, and I'm married... but my dad was always there to call with a car issue or a home repair. He always said, "I don't have much. But if you ever need anything, you just have to ask."
When I went off to college, my dad was so upset that he bought himself a big TV. And the first time that he heard me say that I was going home, meaning college... he was very angry and said, "No, THIS is your home." I was his baby. TJ and I thought that we were mutually helping each other out when we moved in here, but now I can see that my dad was really helping us out, especially in the financial sense. But he liked taking care of us. It gave him purpose.
My dad was not perfect. He spent much of his life being depressed. And this was very hard on us as a family. But in his way, he consistently showed that he loved us. To me, he was rock steady. In his last few days, he was helpless, and it was really difficult and scary for me to see. I held his hand, and I told him it was going to be okay. But I was terrified. And I'm just so sad. I'm sad for the day when Blake doesn't look at a picture of my dad and say, "Pap." I'm sad for the day when my dad's voice isn't as clear in my mind. I'm sad that dad won't be here to meet Malcolm. I'm just so sad.
But we are his legacy now. He would want me to keep going and keep taking care of my family. When we were in the ER, he kept trying to make us leave because he was worried about Blake. So, all I can do is keep on keeping on. Ugh. I actually hate that phrase for some reason, but I'm using it now because my sentiments are basically fake. I mean, yes, I have to just keep going. Life keeps going. But I mostly feel like staying in bed. So I guess there's no neat and pretty way to end this blog post.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
aftermath
There are few words to describe what it's like to see your dad in a casket being lowered into the ground. You just want to yell, "Stop! What are you doing? My dad is in there!" To see his body lying in a casket, and you wonder why he isn't waking up. To come home every day and see his truck on the street and think, "Oh, dad's home. No... he's not..." And the memory of watching him coughing up blood, moving around in his hospital bed while only half-conscious. I held his hand and tried to comfort him, and meanwhile, I needed someone to comfort me. I was so scared.
But the images that haunt me daily are the ones of Blake sitting on my dad's lap watching videos on the computer. Blake would go have time with Pap usually twice a day, and I was always encouraging him to go find Pap (aka leave me alone for a minute). I don't even know if Blake noticed Pap's absence because for a week or two before we went to the hospital, Blake would go knock on Pap's door, and I had to keep telling him to leave Pap alone because Pap was not feeling well. How can it be that a grandparent would be taken from such a young boy? Blake could make my dad smile like no one else in the world. I think he loved Blake more than anyone. Pap was one of Blake's first words.
I don't know what to say. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you?" and I don't have an answer. I don't even know what people want to hear. Do they want to really hear all that I have to say? Do they want to hear how angry I am that my dad was taken from us so suddenly? Do they want to hear how overwhelmed I am when trying to figure out how to handle all of this financial stuff? Well, I don't feel like talking about it because it's just too much. That's why I had to type it now. So you don't have to ask, you can see it all here.
On my dad's death certificate, there were three causes of death. The first was my fault, the second was the hospital's, and the third, God's. I use the word fault on purpose, though I know that in the future, I will replace the word fault with other, more accurate words. I do not think my dad's death is "my fault," and yet, when you choose to take out someone's breathing tube and respiratory failure occurs... you feel responsible. Even though that's what he asked for in his living will. Eventually, I will feel more at peace and will call this my choice, and more accurately, his choice. And I use the words "God's fault" because I am angry at God for this. I'll get over it, but for now, that's how I feel. Might as well be honest because he already knows I feel that way. The cause of death that was God's fault, by the way, was metastatic blah blah blah carcinoma (cancer). I am not angry that my dad got cancer. I am only angry that he was taken from us so suddenly like that. The only cause of death that I will continue to use the word fault is pulmonary hemorrhage. That was the hospital's fault. Dad was perfectly conscious before he got his biopsy. The nurse called me to say he was getting the test done, and that Dad requested I bring him some toiletries from home. And I never got to speak to him ever again. Did Dad know there was a big risk in doing the biopsy? I sure as hell didn't. Doctor said, "It's easier to take tissue from the lungs than it is from the liver." Okay, but you killed my dad because you punctured his right lung. So it doesn't seem like it was easier to me!
Perhaps I am just rambling at this point. I have not had time to process my feelings due to all the funeral preparations of last week and just trying to get finances in order this week, even to things as simple as switching household bills into my name. Tonight while I was driving home from an appointment, there was a beautiful moon. I think I will have a special fondness for the moon for the rest of my life because Blake loves the moon so much. He gets so excited. On the drive home, I got to stare at the moon the entire time. It really was stunning. I told God that this didn't change things between us, that I am still angry, but I appreciate the kindness.
Oh, and another thing... there is no reason why I should have to "be strong." So don't tell me to. This period of grief should be spent grieving. Forget picking up toys, forget doing the dishes. I'm doing what I have to do to take care of my babies, but other than that, I should not have to be strong. I'm just a kid, aren't I? In the world, I know I have responsibilities and that this financial stuff has to get done. But even though I'm mad at God right now, it is (sometimes) comforting to me to remember that though I have lost my dad, God is still my father. And I don't have to do this all alone.
But the images that haunt me daily are the ones of Blake sitting on my dad's lap watching videos on the computer. Blake would go have time with Pap usually twice a day, and I was always encouraging him to go find Pap (aka leave me alone for a minute). I don't even know if Blake noticed Pap's absence because for a week or two before we went to the hospital, Blake would go knock on Pap's door, and I had to keep telling him to leave Pap alone because Pap was not feeling well. How can it be that a grandparent would be taken from such a young boy? Blake could make my dad smile like no one else in the world. I think he loved Blake more than anyone. Pap was one of Blake's first words.
I don't know what to say. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you?" and I don't have an answer. I don't even know what people want to hear. Do they want to really hear all that I have to say? Do they want to hear how angry I am that my dad was taken from us so suddenly? Do they want to hear how overwhelmed I am when trying to figure out how to handle all of this financial stuff? Well, I don't feel like talking about it because it's just too much. That's why I had to type it now. So you don't have to ask, you can see it all here.
On my dad's death certificate, there were three causes of death. The first was my fault, the second was the hospital's, and the third, God's. I use the word fault on purpose, though I know that in the future, I will replace the word fault with other, more accurate words. I do not think my dad's death is "my fault," and yet, when you choose to take out someone's breathing tube and respiratory failure occurs... you feel responsible. Even though that's what he asked for in his living will. Eventually, I will feel more at peace and will call this my choice, and more accurately, his choice. And I use the words "God's fault" because I am angry at God for this. I'll get over it, but for now, that's how I feel. Might as well be honest because he already knows I feel that way. The cause of death that was God's fault, by the way, was metastatic blah blah blah carcinoma (cancer). I am not angry that my dad got cancer. I am only angry that he was taken from us so suddenly like that. The only cause of death that I will continue to use the word fault is pulmonary hemorrhage. That was the hospital's fault. Dad was perfectly conscious before he got his biopsy. The nurse called me to say he was getting the test done, and that Dad requested I bring him some toiletries from home. And I never got to speak to him ever again. Did Dad know there was a big risk in doing the biopsy? I sure as hell didn't. Doctor said, "It's easier to take tissue from the lungs than it is from the liver." Okay, but you killed my dad because you punctured his right lung. So it doesn't seem like it was easier to me!
Perhaps I am just rambling at this point. I have not had time to process my feelings due to all the funeral preparations of last week and just trying to get finances in order this week, even to things as simple as switching household bills into my name. Tonight while I was driving home from an appointment, there was a beautiful moon. I think I will have a special fondness for the moon for the rest of my life because Blake loves the moon so much. He gets so excited. On the drive home, I got to stare at the moon the entire time. It really was stunning. I told God that this didn't change things between us, that I am still angry, but I appreciate the kindness.
Oh, and another thing... there is no reason why I should have to "be strong." So don't tell me to. This period of grief should be spent grieving. Forget picking up toys, forget doing the dishes. I'm doing what I have to do to take care of my babies, but other than that, I should not have to be strong. I'm just a kid, aren't I? In the world, I know I have responsibilities and that this financial stuff has to get done. But even though I'm mad at God right now, it is (sometimes) comforting to me to remember that though I have lost my dad, God is still my father. And I don't have to do this all alone.
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