I sat by the bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled
His soul now had complete control.
He fought kicking and screaming the night the
Ambulance came to take him on his final journey,
Like a great wildebeest trying to get up on its
Front legs after being taken down by young lions.
The way so many had said he probably would
Since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout
His life from the very beginning.
That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed
Staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the
Medical center at the hidden worlds under
Thousands of straight stationary lights in-between
Winding rows of transient lights; and thought how
The light of this window is just one of thousands.
At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny
Spec in the vast star fields above this city
Of light.
My father had spent his whole life just a short six
Mile drive from here, under the scattered lights of
His hometown.
He turned to me and asked,
"That's a big city. Where are we?"
Dementia had captured his mind years before. It
Wound slowly around his brain like a cocky snake
Handler being choked by a Boa Constrictor unawares.
But, due to this senility, it was good to see much of the
Bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over
The past decade. It was like a blood transfusion trying
To save diseased organs or something. (Mellowing with
Age is what they call it). But it seems it all caught up to
His body. At that time compassio
n ruled the day. I couldn't
Say it then, but it's been six years, where it seems
Compassion has forged with objectivity.
In a lucid moment, he looked around the hospital room
Bewildered, as if he were a little boy that just woke up
From a bad dream, and asked,
"How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him. Sometimes the truth can't
Be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sing softly
Into his ear his favorite hymns. By morning his lifeless,
Dilapidated body lay in the fetal position. His ravenous
Mouth, now forever frozen, looked like a knothole in a
Twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now, six years later, is hang my head and think
Of how weak and frail we humans truly are. Like compassion
Forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with
Fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these
Moments to tower above the pedestals the former is made
Of, to somehow minimize the pain of this oft denied truth.
Copyright 2008 Daniel Irwin Tucker
All Rights Reserved.
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Comments: 51
Kristina
almost eleven years ago my father finally told me he loved me. On his death bed !
I think most of us try our hardest to live good lives, it's sad when the degeneration of old age and illness turns us into someone we might rather not be.
Peace to you.
A powerful poem, and I hope cathartic. My condolences.
All the best mate.
It is always strange to see a parent become a not parent. I guess because they always 'pretend' to be strong and resilient for the children's benefit and comfort. When we see them slide down into the morass, it is a sobering, growing, shake-y moment for the child--whatever the child's age.
Ten years of the wasting illness took her just last January--and dad was able to keep her at home throughout. And, that's another thing. My mom was my hero throughout my whole life. When I saw my father (the man) emerge as we cared for her, I was astounded by the loyalty and the respect he evinced every single day for 10+ years, I was gifted with a brand new hero. He was always superman, as I was growing up--Larger than life, able to do all these amazing things. This last decade, I was privileged to get to know him as Clark Kent--Mild Mannered Father, royally loyal Husband, a completely-complex, Simple Man.
The irony is that he drew closer to his children due to mom's heinous illness. We were able to see him in another light. Not that he changed. He was always who he was…we were just not able to see it through the ebullient nature of my mom's personality.
I was with dad when mom passed. And I am so thankful that it worked out that way.
Sorry for going on about this. What you wrote (so beautifully) spoke to me straight into my head and heart--having just been there with mom.
Life goes on, imperious clanking and churning--without us. We are not necessarily necessary to the process. What we build or bring into the world--what gifts we offer up to others--what we ADD to the process? That is what defines us, and measures us as worthy of the gift of life.
I hope you find your peace. I hope you find your gifts and share them well, as you did here, with this writing. As Kamran (above) just said, and I concur...All the best, mate.
Blessed be,
Wilka
This speaks to my experience. My dad too mellowed as he got older. Often tormented, it's like one day a switch was flipped and he was more or less at peace. My mom said he'd gotten pills for his heart. Later, when he started to show early dementia he seemed at times almost giddy. I wish we could have found a way to bring him peace earlier.
Thanks for reminding me of my Dad. But it is a fine work - as a poem, as autobiography. It rings true.
The smell in the room was terrible, yet Grandmother Binns was as mentally strong and stubborn as ever.
I wanted to add as a footnote, that my elderly mother wanted to keep her husband home throughout the illness. But it was an impossible undertaking. My wife and I lived over 500 miles from her. Regardless, we packed up and went to my parents home, to help my mother. I have a physical disabilitiy, but helped as much as I could. But my wife, my wonderful wife did the lion's share. He had pancreatic cancer and was incontinent, etc., so it truly was stressful. We were there for five months till he succomed; but I needed the experience to develope compassion and forgiveness to a man that destroyed the happiness of his family 30 years before. A love/hate relationship with a parent is a horrible thing. I had written down a lot of these feelings through the those 30 years, and that was cathartic. But to go through changing his clothes and coming his hair was what brought some of the healing.
Anyway, thanks again for the love and understanding.
i wish you peace and love... Blessings always...
As I mentioned above, my heart goes out to all of you. Some of you have endured much more intense loss than I.
Susan> The losses in your life, especially when they were so close together, blows my mind. Words cannot express.
Wade, my brother, The 'soldiers' simile says alot. And you sure know what it's like to be a soldier, literally!
Now I’m dropping by to see ya
Thanks for sharing this with all of us here at gather.
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This is so touching, Daniel. The idea that as the body withers, the brain fails, and strength is gone; all that is left is the soul. Those who sit with someone who is dying can feel the soul struggling to be free as the body fight its final losing battle.
Thanks for posting to Fugitives from Ignorance, Conformity, and Peer Pressure.
I couldn't finish the lst stanza because I'm crying. I'll be back soon. Thank you for sharing your poem with me. HUgs
I appreciated the imagery and analogies in your poem. It is a poignant write, indeed. I feel for you and don't know quite what to say about your loss. Peace be with you.
Powerful penned. I felt as if I were there with you. Thank you for this wonderful piece of work.