28 July 2003
Dad
by Nanci Olesen
We sat by my dad's bed for nine days.
Sometimes we stood. First we were in the
intensive care unit of a big hospital in
our city. Then we were in a peaceful room
in the Acute Oncology Department in the
same hospital. We had a lazy boy recliner
in that room that we took turns taking naps
on or sleeping in, pulled up next to Dad's
bed so that at 3 in the morning when he
groaned and moved and tried to get up, we
could help settle him. There was a fold
up bed too and I slept next to my mom one
night, as we restlessly listened to Dad's
breathing. We sang him the songs that we
all knew: James Taylor songs from camping
trips, Lutheran hymns, "Home on the
Range", "Sweet Chariot",
and "Amazing Grace".
Each night before "bed" we sang
the prayer "Jesus Tender" that
he and Mom used to sing to us and that we
now sing to our own children.
There are three of us: my older brother,
me, and my sister. In the last few days
it was often just Mom, Dad, and their kids.
We hadn't been just the five of us for many
years.
When he died, he gurgled away. His lungs
were filling and you could hear the gurgles
gurgling nearer and nearer to the top of
his lungs. We had read some prayers and
had sung a few songs. Then we had dispersed
for a while. Then my cousin, who's a nurse
and who was watching carefully, said "Come
here now. Here he goes." And we all
gathered to watch him die, holding his hands
and stroking his forehead. Quite suddenly
he was completely gone. His face was ashen
so suddenly. His body was so suddenly a
shell.
We held hands around and over his body.
We prayed the Lord's Prayer like we had
learned in Sunday School. Then we quietly
packed up our belongings. My sister's husband
came, and then mine. The doctor pronounced
him dead. We ordered an autopsy. We thanked
our nurse who had been on duty.
It all happened so suddenly. He was a healthy
man. He had felt a stomach ache and was
getting uncomfortable but had mentioned
it only briefly on Memorial Day as we sat
on the porch at their house at the lake,
making plans for the summer. On June 24th
we were to go to a Cub's game at Wrigley
Field. My son, who is thirteen, was intensely
excited. He and his grandpa shared information
about the upcoming game.
On June 24th in the morning, we buried
my dad in a private burial in a rural cemetery
in northwestern Wisconsin. My mom was dressed
in a beautiful long, flowered black dress,
cut gracefully close to her body. She had
gotten a haircut. We buried our dad two
rows up from our mom's sister and brother-in-law
and her own parents. Our two girls, ages
8 and 9, were dressed in the flower girl
dresses from my sister's wedding. Our son
wore a suitcoat of his dad's, with the sleeves
artfully hemmed. My brother's wife and their
girls had just arrived from Canada. The
cousins stood together in a little huddle.
Our extended family from our mom's side
was there. Dad had been an only child and
his only relative was his cousin's son and
his cousin's son's wife. They were there.
They had known Dad well.
Later we had a memorial service with so
many people that there was standing room
only in the small Lutheran church. Then
we went out to the lake, to our parents'
home, and ate ham sandwiches and swam and
listened to our friends' band play fiddle
music, the fiddle music that Dad loved.
I talked to people I hadn't
seen in twenty years. I heard stories about
my dad that made me laugh and cry. We stayed
up late after all the friends and relatives
left, just Mom and the three of us and our
spouses. We drank wine and cooked up a couple
of frozen pizzas.
Dad was a very gregarious
man. He had a radio show, called "The
Spice of Life" on Saturday afternoons
on WOJB in Hayward, Wisconsin. He played
folk music and read quotes and told jokes
and checked in on the weather. He always
ended the show with this poem:
The days slip by, like
gently falling rain.
Our share of joy, our share of pain.
We plan our lives, but Fate is not our own.
Each day reveals a destiny unknown.
So hold each day, like a precious gem.
For it will ne'er be yours again.
We think that that poem was
from a song by a group called Sojourners.
But we don't know for sure.
My intentions have fallen
away from me. I'm tired. So tired. And I
can't listen to the radio or to music because
my head is full of some kind of wind. The
high clouds of a summer afternoon signify
my dad to me these days and I'm always looking
up up up. My heart is achy and when I serve
coffee at the restaurant to someone my dad's
age my hand shakes as I put the cup in front
of him and I turn away quickly. I can't
remember anything for very long, like what
I'm supposed to do next or who I'm supposed
to call.
Our family is going on a trip
to see my brother and his family. We had
planned it for a long time before we knew
that Dad was going to die. We've been packing.
It has taken forever. I pack slowly and
write lists for previously uncomplicated
tasks like "cancel the paper".
At night I call my mom and we discuss things
like Dad's death certificate and when it's
coming so she can claim his teacher's retirement
benefits. We remind each other what needs
to be done. Then she climbs into their bed,
all alone. She married him when she was
19. They had been married 46 years.
I sing "Jesus Tender"
to my children on these summer nights and
in my head, I hear us all singing it around
Dad's bed. I pack slowly and steadily to
get us out the door to go to my brother's.
The wind is roaring in my ears. Tomorrow
after my shift at the restaurant we'll hit
the road.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
