My father passed away last night after a months long battle with multiple infections that he kept picking up at rehabilitation facilities. Had he not had multiple myeloma (read: cancer) this may not have happened, but he did so here we are. The thing we were all focused on was getting him back on his feet after the broken hip in December, then getting over this infection, then that infection, then this other infection...all the while the cancer, which couldn't be treated until all this other crap was taken care of, was in the background silently making it harder and harder for Dad to fight back. He'd been on life support for two weeks and there was nothing more we, or he, could do. So last night we said good-bye while John Coltrane played him out in style.
I've known for a while that this was coming, but the little girl in me kept hoping that my Daddy was going to surprise everyone and pull through. That they were going to get the ventilator out of his throat and he was going to start breathing normally, that today they'd try to ease off on the pain reliever and he'd start to stir, and that after a couple days he'd be up and talking to us. I wanted so much for that to happen. But it didn't.
My Dad wasn't the easiest person to live with. He was very quiet, and spoke very little. His use of the silent treatment wouldn't seem like much considering this, but it was pretty pronounced. He was a jazz musician and didn't have a whole lot of appreciation for music that was played the same way twice (or the music I played over and over in my room!) But he was always there for me, and he always wanted what was best for me, and he loved me and I knew it. He certainly loved my son, maybe a little bit because they looked so much alike.
What can I say that I haven't said before? This sucks. It's awful. I'm broken-hearted for so many reasons. I don't know that I ever really got to know my father- he was a private person even with family. I just scanned my Google Photos and there are so few where my Dad is the main focus of the picture. Most of the time he was just in the background, watching what was going on. I wish I had more pictures of my Dad, but the truth is being in the background was kind of how he was- always there, quietly observing, chiming in when he felt the need to which wasn't that often.
I think that's what makes this the hardest. My Dad was in (the first) rehab for his broken limb last Christmas. It was weird him not being there. The conversation level wasn't much different. The food wasn't much different. The number of presents and laughs wasn't different. But what was different is that Dad wasn't there in the background, just being there. That steadfast presence I always felt was gone. And now he's really gone and it doesn't seem real at all.
Dad wasn't big into sports like most dads. Father's Day cards were always a challenge because he never fit that stereotypical Dad mold. The thing that I really associate with my Dad is music. He played woodwinds (like, all of them), and composed, and arranged, and conducted. He gifted us his old turntable and speakers and receiver. The speakers were built for him back in the 1950's or something, and are so big I could still fit inside of one. I told him we were thinking about buying a piano and he said, "Just take ours." (To be fair, I'm pretty sure the upright was my Mom's and the baby grand we sold over 25 years ago was my Dad's, so he gave us my Mom's piano.) The books and magazines he read were all about music. He spent hours watching YouTube videos of jazz players. He was a professional musician from the time he was 15 years old. When I see musical notes, I think of my Dad.
I'm still in the numbness phase. Lots of memories floating up to the top of my consciousness. Lots of wishing I'd wake up already because my Daddy can't be gone. Lots of wishing I could hug him again and tell him I love him.
