Remembering My Father--"The Longest Night"

[As I prepare to become a grandmother for the first time, I am thinking today of my father, who died on this date in 1962. I think of all the things he never got to see me do--learn to drive, sing in the choir, play in the high school band. He never got to read my articles in the high school newspaper, or guide me through the teen years, witness my first prom and graduation from high school, then college. He didn't get to meet the man I married, walk me down the aisle and give me away, nor see my children and watch them grow up. And, yet, in a way, I feel like he has been watching over me all these years. The following is an article I wrote last year (unchanged except for updating the number of years), which includes a poem I wrote about the night he died. When you lose a loved one, you learn how to cope, how to adjust, because life goes on, and because you must; but you never forget because they are a part of you.]

Today is the anniversary of my father's death forty-nine years ago. He died the day before my oldest brother's birthday, and just two and a half weeks before mine. My father had rarely been sick, and had never missed work due to illness. He always said that the day he couldn't go to work was the day he would die.

That morning, I remember my mother calling to me, worry and urgency in her voice. When I emerged from my bedroom, my father was sitting on the bathroom floor, my mother steadying him so he wouldn't fall over. She told me to take her place while she ran to the phone to call for an ambulance. He had vomited blood, then collapsed from weakness. Two weeks earlier, he had been diagnosed with what the doctor thought was the flu and told to stay home from work and go to bed. Today, it was clear that something much more than the flu was wrong with him, and what he'd said about not being able to go to work went through my mind.

For years, my father had been plagued by heartburn. Today, he most likely would have been given medication to treat his symptoms and protect his esophagus, but back then he was told to take an antacid, such as Tums, and cut out spicy foods. He was rushed to the hospital, tests were done, and we received the diagnosis--cancer of the esophagus. Surgery was the only thing that might save his life, and the odds were 80/20 against him. But when the doctors opened him up, the odds dropped to zero--every organ in his body, except his heart, had been invaded by cancer. The doctors said they were amazed he had kept going as long as he did, and that there was nothing they could do. They closed him up, returned him to his room, and the family took up vigil at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He never did.

I remember sitting in his darkened room with my mother, my three brothers, and my aunt. I remember the nurse speaking to my father, trying to wake him from the anesthesia. I remember the sound of his breathing, the sounds of monitors to which he was connected, and the sound of the clock on the wall. When he stopped breathing, all of the other sounds stopped, too...except for the ticking of that clock. In addition to losing my father, I felt I had lost my sense of security, as well as my childhood.

The Longest Night

When I was thirteen,

I sat beside my mother

at the foot of his bed,

listening to the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall,

to the steady

drip - drip - drip of the IV,

the s t e a d y

R I S E and f a l l

as the lungs

F I L L, e m p t y, F I L L

as the nurse takes his pulse,

as the light outside grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

as the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall

counts out my father's life

second by second,

as the drip - drip - drip - of the IV goes on,

the breathing becomes labored

the chest RISES . . . p a u s e s . . . fa l l s,

and the lungs begin shutting down

as the nurse takes his pulse again

and shakes her head,

and the steady t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock goes on,

the chest R I S E S . . . f a l l s . . . stops,

as the nurse removes the IV,

and shakes her head,

the light of my childhood

grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

and he's gone.

--Donna B. Russell

© March 30, 2005

The Longest Night

Today is the anniversary of my father's death forty-eight years ago. He died the day before my oldest brother's birthday, and just two and a half weeks before mine. My father had rarely been sick, and had never missed work due to illness. He always said that the day he couldn't go to work was the day he would die.

That morning, I remember my mother calling to me, worry and urgency in her voice. When I emerged from my bedroom, my father was sitting on the bathroom floor, my mother steadying him so he wouldn't fall over. She told me to take her place while she ran to the phone to call for an ambulance. He had vomited blood, then collapsed from weakness. Two weeks earlier, he had been diagnosed with what the doctor thought was the flu and told to stay home from work and go to bed. Today, it was clear that something much more than the flu was wrong with him, and what he'd said about not being able to go to work went through my mind.

For years, my father had been plagued by heartburn. Today, he most likely would have been given medication to treat his symptoms and protect his esophagus, but back then he was told to take an antacid, such as Tums, and cut out spicy foods. He was rushed to the hospital, tests were done, and we received the diagnosis--cancer of the esophagus. Surgery was the only thing that might save his life, and the odds were 80/20 against him. But when the doctors opened him up, the odds dropped to zero--every organ in his body, except his heart, had been invaded by cancer. The doctors said they were amazed he had kept going as long as he did, and that there was nothing they could do. They closed him up, returned him to his room, and the family took up vigil at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He never did.

I remember sitting in his darkened room with my mother, my three brothers, and my aunt. I remember the nurse speaking to my father, trying to wake him from the anesthesia. I remember the sound of his breathing, the sounds of monitors to which he was connected, and the sound of the clock on the wall. When he stopped breathing, all of the other sounds stopped, too...except for the ticking of that clock. In addition to losing my father, I felt I had lost my sense of security, as well as my childhood.

The Longest Night

When I was thirteen,

I sat beside my mother

at the foot of his bed,

listening to the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall,

to the steady

drip - drip - drip of the IV,

the s t e a d y

R I S E and f a l l

as the lungs

F I L L, e m p t y, F I L L

as the nurse takes his pulse,

as the light outside grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

as the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall

counts out my father's life

second by second,

as the drip - drip - drip - of the IV goes on,

the breathing becomes labored

the chest RISES . . . p a u s e s . . . fa l l s,

and the lungs begin shutting down

as the nurse takes his pulse again

and shakes her head,

and the steady t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock goes on,

the chest R I S E S . . . f a l l s . . . stops,

as the nurse removes the IV,

and shakes her head,

the light of my childhood

grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

and he's gone.

--Donna B. Russell

© March 30, 2005

Lessons for the Living, Gifts for the Dying

Advent is a time when we think of birth and beginnings, stars and shepherds, decorations and Christmas carols, trees and gifts. But, sometimes, illness and death are a part of the holidays, as well. Just before Thanksgiving my son-in-law's family experienced the loss of two family members within a week of each other: one, the sudden, unexpected death of a beloved uncle; the other, the natural culmination of the long life of a grandmother. They are fortunate in that they have a large, close-knit family who know how to come together in difficult times for mutual comfort and support.

Others are not so lucky. In our culture we try to distance ourselves from death. We closet it away in hospitals and nursing homes, couch it in euphemisms, and sanitize it so we can put thoughts of our own mortality out of our minds instead of recognizing it as a normal, sometimes even welcome, part of life. So, as we think about giving, what can we give to the dying, and what can we learn from them?

Today, I would like to introduce you to someone who transformed his own personal experience of a cancer diagnosis, and the attendant fear and grieving, into a means of helping others, and, in the process, learned some valuable lessons which he is now sharing through his new book and a series of videos. I met Stan recently through Facebook, and now, I'd like you to meet him, too.

Stan Goldberg is a Professor Emeritus of Communicative Disorders at San Francisco State University. He has published six books and numerous articles dealing with loss and end of life issues. His latest book is Lessons for the Living: Stories of Forgiveness, Gratitude, and Courage at the End of Life. The MyShelf book reviewer says "it is a book to change the way you'll live the rest of your life."

Stan is also a regular columnist on opentohope.com, examiner.com, and the Hospice Volunteer Association's quarterly magazine. Other articles also appear on his website: http://stangoldbergwriter.com. He consults on issues of change and leads workshops for adults whose lives were suddenly and dramatically changed. He has been a bedside hospice volunteer for seven years and currently serves with Pathways Home Health Care and Hospice. He is the 2009 Hospice Volunteer Association's Volunteer of the Year.

When Stan was diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer, instead of giving up or giving in to self-pity, he decided to learn about dying from those who were experiencing it by facing his fear and becoming a hospice volunteer. Being with, caring for, and listening to those at the end of life taught him much more than how to die--it changed how he viewed not only death, but life. In Lessons for the Living he shares some of those stories and lessons with the rest of us and, in so doing, reminds us that death is as natural as birth, and by understanding it and allowing it to be our teacher, our remaining time on earth can be transformed into a more joyful, meaningful experience.

In addition to his book, Stan has just added a series of twelve videos called "Helping Loved Ones Die," which you can access through his website or by going directly to YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SXtTTeHvGU&feature=related. In this series, Stan offers specific ways to make a loved one's last days and moments more comfortable and more meaningful so they can have closure and be at peace. I can think of no better gift to give them than that.

For more information about Stan, his books and articles, and to read an excerpt from the book, go to his website: http://stangoldbergwriter.com. His book is also available on Amazon and other outlets.