9:24pm November 8, 2014

Letter to my father

Dear Ron,

It is an honor for me to share time with you in your last days. There are times when I see that your body is in control of what is happening, not you. I can recognize those times because I’ve had them myself. Your facial expressions, the way your body moves, everything says that you have too little energy to hide how bad things are. And I consider it a great honor that you allow me to see you at those times.

I know that it may be you simply don’t have the energy to care anymore. I’ve been there, too. But I’ve also been in a place where I felt embarrassed and exposed, like someone was shining a spotlight on me at my weakest moments. When I couldn’t move anything except my eyes. Or when I was coughing or vomiting and couldn’t stop, in ways that go well beyond what most people ever experience. Or when I was simply so exhausted that my entire body took on a look that is familiar to me when I see it in you.

And regardless of whether you find those moments embarrassing or not, they are intimate. And I want to thank you for allowing me that intimacy. I love you. I know we didn’t get a chance to Skype today. I am trying not to assume the worst, but it’s hard.

I want you to know that while I know you are dying, until you actually die I count you among the living. You’re alive but severely ill. At some point that severe illness will kill you. We don’t know when. We just know that your death is a lot more certain than mine was, because adrenal insufficiency and myasthenia gravis are treatable, end-stage cancer is not. But I know what it is to stand on the edge of death, and I know what it is to have no energy, none at all, not even for the little things you wouldn’t normally think take energy: breathing, digesting, beating your heart. And I can tell how much pain you’re in.

Thank you for not shutting me out. Thank you for accepting my love. Thank you for understanding that I understand you’re still alive, until you’re not. Some people, when they think you’re dying, they treat you like you’re already dead almost. That’s not how I see you. I see you as still alive until the fat lady sings, as it were.

But the fat lady hasn’t given us her schedule. And I want to talk to you every day, if I can, and if you’ll allow it. It would be good if Anna could call on the phone when you’re having a better moment and are up to chatting, because I don’t like just calling you at random and risking forcing you to exert yourself beyond your current limits.

I love you so much, and same goes for Anna. I miss being able to be around. But just being able to look at each other and love each other, i wasn’t kidding about these being some of the best conversations we’ve ever had. They’re the best because everything is distilled down to that essence of love. And sometimes the moments when the love is the strongest are when you are at your weakest. It’s weird how things like that work sometimes. It’s like my comic, sometimes you have to be sick enough to let those parts of reality into your being.

Anyway, I’m writing this to you, but I’m also writing it in public because I know there are other people losing parents, other people in the process of dying, who might want to hear some of this. Thank you so much for everything you’ve given me throughout your life. I could never repay you for the tiniest fraction of what you’ve done as a parent. I realize that more and more about you and Anna as I get to be the age she was when she had me, and I think what if I had a kid, what would I do? And I think you guys did a pretty damn good job, mistakes and all.

Love (always and forever),
Mel