Uncertainty

They say death and taxes are the only sure things in life.

But say your government falls into anarchy, and there are no taxes?

And say medicine advances far enough to cure death?

What then can you be sure of?

Of course, I understand what the old saying means. Nothing in life is certain. And I agree. I keep on thinking I know something, and then I find out I'm wrong.

I remember when I went to camp at Camp Orkilah back in Washington talking about certainty. These kids told me that if you believed something, truly, one hundred and ten percent believed something as a complete fact, it would become a fact. If you truly believed the wall wasn't there, it would disappear. Of course, the catch was that you can never actually be completely, one hundred percent sure of anything. Ever.

It's supposed to be a statement about the power of perception. I don't believe that, but it does point out something about certainties. They're not one hundred percent.

I thought I had death figured out, to an extent. People didn't just die unless it was a tragic accident or medical problem, whether it was preexisting or recently attained. I was wrong. I remember, I was talking to my cousin Cathy. She mentioned her first husband, who died tragically. He felt crummy one morning, Cathy and the couple's son went out for chores, and when they came back, he was dead. The doctors couldn't find the cause of the death and filed it as unknown.

So, I'm not certain of anything more. A man can look fine today and be dead or terminally ill the next day. There is an inherent chaos and instability and uncertainty to life that will ironically never change. All we can do is try to understand it.

Death and taxes... Nothing is certain.

A Warning

I don't think I'll be talking about my late Dad much. I'm not trying to just move on, or whatever, I just don't really want to write about it, or I feel like I lack the eloquence to do it. So when you see new posts that make it seem like I'm just fine, it's not because I'm over it, it's just that I don't want to write about him. It still haunts me, but I knew it would. So I'm just warning you. Besides, my uncle is doing a much better job of writing about Gary than I ever could have done... (Switch2planb.com)

Requiem Part 2

It's been more than a week since Dad's death.

We held the funeral in the beautifully redone St. Mary's. That Dad never got to see finished...

I've been back to school.

But it's not the same.

It never will be.

Even if it's something in the back of my head,

Reminding me when I wake up.

About that terrible year that Dad's life was slowly sucked away.

He died on January 30th, a few days before Groundhog's Day, which would've been the anniversary of the last time he walked and the last time we took him to the hospital.

Because after that we wouldn't let him leave home.

I can't believe that after that year, in the course of 365 days, that he is so gone.

Everyday, I wake up,
And I'm reminded for a moment,
For the pain a man suffered,
And the inevitable loss his family felt as he died.
I say to myself, "My Dad is dead.
I have one parent who's dealing with the intensity of her own loss,
Which I must say is alot stronger for her."

But everyday, when I go to bed, I try to remember who he was before the cancer.
I remember this quote that has been repeated many times upon Dad's death.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have
kept the faith.

And I ask myself,
Would he be proud of me right now?

Requiem

When I came home Monday, Dad was unresponsive, laying there, in the hospital bed we had moved into the bedroom a week earlier. A priest was standing over Dad as I walked in, speaking some sort of blessing over him. I joined my family around him. Tears flowed freely as we realized how close our dear father was to death.

Over the course of the day, Dad miraculously sustained somewhat stable conditions while family and friends arrived at house. Mom's friend Beth, and Gary's father, Don. Dad survived the night, but remained unresponsive and of declining, hopeless health. By the end of the next day, Uncle David, Uncle Brian, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Kim, and Aunt Amy, as well as a few of their spouses. We convened in Dad's bedroom, sitting by him, standing watch.

His whole family was there in the house.
His wife, laying next to him on the hospital bed, squeezed up against the metal bars.
His siblings, scattered around the bedroom, or throughout the house helping.
His dad, sitting solemnly in the armchair.
His kids, kissing him goodnight and sleeping on the floor to be near to him.
Even his dog Yogi was there, sitting vigilantly next to him on the bed.

A hospice nurse came by, and estimated that he could last a couple of days. By Wednesday, Mom began to prepare us, telling us she anticipated Dad's death sometime that night. But he held on.

By Thursday, Gary's vitals were decreasing. Not shocking, but an ominous sign of his imminent death. Mom, with more certainty this time, told us Dad would probably die during the night. But he held on.

On Friday, a chaplain from St. Luke's came by and prayed a blessing over Dad. Mom cried silently into Dad's shoulder. The chaplain left. And suddenly, Dad's breathing became astoundingly shallow. Mom called us over, intuiting her husband's last moments. His kids came to him and held his hand, whispering "I love you, Dad"s as Gary passed away.

It was no surprise, really, to anybody.

Somehow I thought that would soften the blow.

It didn't.

The problem here is that this is more than the death of a father, or a husband, or a brother, or a son. It's so much more. Words fail to explain it.

(to be continued?)