Espadrilles And Eating Dirt and Matches
The Nebraska State Fair is coming up this weekend. I hate that fucking thing. I mean, I love to GO to the fair and spend time looking at the animals, and eating them and stuff, but I hate the fucking fair time. As if I don't segue into my dad's death every other time, I'm going to do it again now.
Three years ago, it was getting close to fair time. My dad loved the state fair. Absolutely loved it. He went every year. Then, my mom came along and that all changed. She hated the fair. Couldn't stand the heat, couldn't stand the crowds, blah blah blah. I know it sounds weird to say my mom came along 3 years ago, when I'm 34, but my mom and dad knew each other and "dated" on and off for 30 years. She moved in with him in 1996. Finally.
Well, dad was really disappointed that he couldn't go to the fair. He said, "I'd really like to go, Kid, but your mother hates it and won't go." He always called her "your mother". That kills me. Anyway, since Ron and I ALWAYS went to the State Fair, I said, "No problem daddy-o. You can go with us. We'll pick you up and squire you around in a wheelchair." My dad had most of his foot missing by then. He walked on this bizarre espadrille type boot, but he wasn't quite getting around very well.
"You know what? I'd really like that!" His face lit up. We made a date.
Two weeks later, he was dead.
The 3rd anniversary of my dad's death is on September 22nd, and typing that is still like a knife in my heart. Not only in my heart, but behind my eyes, in my belly, through my brain, and kinda around my spleen area.
See, I never in a million years guessed that my need for him would be a craving. A physical craving, like when people are deficient they eat things like dirt and matches. I NEED my dad. I sometimes feel like I cannot go on another minute without him. Then, I hear his voice saying, "In time, Kid. In time. We'll meet again." That always makes me feel better. But what am I supposed to do right now?
It was hard for me...watching him lose his foot a little at a time. Then he had to go through dialysis. How he hated that. Then, he lost the lower half of his leg. He never walked out of the hospital after that. But, you know what? Part of me says that he would have died from giving up anyway. He was very depressed after losing most of his foot. I can't even imagine what losing his leg below the knee would do to his psyche. I often tell myself that he wouldn't have wanted to live like that, but at this point, I don't care what he would have wanted. I wanted him to live. I don't care if I would have had to push him around in a grocery cart. I'd take him no matter what.
I never saw him without the leg. My poor dad. God. **tears******tears*****tears****tears***
Sometimes it's still so raw. Like a paper cut you kinda forget you have, until you bash it against something over and over again. Some days are good. I either don't think about it, or I remember the good times. But, there are days where I just relive everything, and think about him. What a guy he was. He left an enormous hole in my life when he died.
Every once in a while, I'll dream about him, as I've indicated about 47 thousand times in different posts. Those dreams I remember fondly, because they are such good communication dreams. But lately, I"ve been having different dreams about my dad. Dreams where I wake up with his image on my eyes like a gossamer thread. Like cotton candy that's been pulled apart. I don't remember any actual conversation happening in these dreams, but his wonderful face is right there on my verge of sleep and awake. I think he comes and visits me in these dreams just to let me see that he's whole and robust again. Not necessarily to tell me anything, like he has in dreams past.
Isn't it funny how long I can go on and on about this? Sometimes when I blog about my dad, I just let the tears fall and pool down my bra. Sometimes I smile, sometimes I laugh out loud. Sometimes I fight the release of tears, because, to be honest, I'm not sure sometimes if they'll ever stop.
I guess sometimes I blame myself. Not for him dying, necessarily, but because I talked him into getting his leg removed. Well, "talked into" is kind of a loose term. It was the doctor saying, "We have to take the leg or you'll die." But, man. Sometimes I wish I would have convinced him to keep the leg, but is gangrene a good way to die? I can't imagine it is. He did what the doctors told him to do, and look what happened. They were supposed to remove his leg to save him, not to kill him. Catch-22? I suppose so. I don't like to think my dad had a death sentence no matter what, but we at least had to take the chance that taking the leg below the knee would save him from gangrene. He already had proven that he could get gangrene. That's how he lost first one toe, then three, then part of his foot, then his leg below the knee.
His doctor told me that if he didn't get the leg removed, he would slowly lose ALL of his kidney function. As it was, he was only at 10% function each. Then, he would slowly go blind. Then he would slowly die of the various ailments that come from being a diabetic. So, I guess the decision was made to, um, kill him quickly? I know there was no way to know that he would DIE after the surgery. They think he threw a blood clot. I guess if there's a way to go, that would be it. I'd choose to go that fast, to tell the truth. But, I'm just selfish enough to maybe wish that he wouldn't have agreed to the surgery. That he maybe should have slowly lost his kidney function, and gone blind, and...??? WHAT???? No way in hell would I wish that. I have seen people die slowly. It ain't pretty. Let me tell you. My wish for everyone would be to die quickly. I often tell people that I never had the chance to say goodbye and all the things that could have been said, but I'd give up saying goodbye a million times over before I'd watch Dad suffer for five minutes. When it comes to that aspect, I guess I have it good.
I do sometimes wish I'd been there during his last moments. Knowing what I know now, at least. Things happen for a reason, I'm convinced. I wasn't there, because I wasn't meant to be there. If I had been meant to be there, I would have been. But, knowing what I know now, I would have held his hand and told him that I loved him so much. And I'd miss him so much that I would want to eat matches and dirt. I would kiss his forehead and tell him to say hello to grandma and grandpa. I would tell him to visit me in my dreams. I'd tell him that he was my hero. I'd tell him I'd see him again someday. Then, when I knew he was gone, I'd scream and try to wake him up like I actually did in the hospital that terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. Because, see, I'm not that good at saying goodbye. Well, saying goodbye I'm not bad at, I'm bad at the concept of saying it forever.
So, that's my story of hating the State Fair. It feels good to spew this sadness in type. Takes it out of my brain. Puts it on paper. These are SOOOOOOO LOOOOONNNNNNNGGGG, but you know what? I have all this inside my head! Imagine! Sometimes there doesn't seem to be room for anything else, so I have to jettison this stuff in order to make more room. Plus, my dad reads these from heaven. Did you know that? It's true. (And, he's laughing about eating matches and dirt. See, when I was pregnant with my daughter, he laughed at me because I craved dirt and burnt wood. I wanted to EAT them. I never did, but I wanted to. )
So, Dad...I'm going to the fair for you again this year. Walk with me if you'd like. Just leave your Espadrille at home. I love you so much and miss you with every fiber of my being, my neighbor's being, my boss's being, the guy at the gas station's being, my Schwan's man's being...well, you get the idea. Good night. My love will fly to you each night on angel's wings.
Three years ago, it was getting close to fair time. My dad loved the state fair. Absolutely loved it. He went every year. Then, my mom came along and that all changed. She hated the fair. Couldn't stand the heat, couldn't stand the crowds, blah blah blah. I know it sounds weird to say my mom came along 3 years ago, when I'm 34, but my mom and dad knew each other and "dated" on and off for 30 years. She moved in with him in 1996. Finally.
Well, dad was really disappointed that he couldn't go to the fair. He said, "I'd really like to go, Kid, but your mother hates it and won't go." He always called her "your mother". That kills me. Anyway, since Ron and I ALWAYS went to the State Fair, I said, "No problem daddy-o. You can go with us. We'll pick you up and squire you around in a wheelchair." My dad had most of his foot missing by then. He walked on this bizarre espadrille type boot, but he wasn't quite getting around very well.
"You know what? I'd really like that!" His face lit up. We made a date.
Two weeks later, he was dead.
The 3rd anniversary of my dad's death is on September 22nd, and typing that is still like a knife in my heart. Not only in my heart, but behind my eyes, in my belly, through my brain, and kinda around my spleen area.
See, I never in a million years guessed that my need for him would be a craving. A physical craving, like when people are deficient they eat things like dirt and matches. I NEED my dad. I sometimes feel like I cannot go on another minute without him. Then, I hear his voice saying, "In time, Kid. In time. We'll meet again." That always makes me feel better. But what am I supposed to do right now?
It was hard for me...watching him lose his foot a little at a time. Then he had to go through dialysis. How he hated that. Then, he lost the lower half of his leg. He never walked out of the hospital after that. But, you know what? Part of me says that he would have died from giving up anyway. He was very depressed after losing most of his foot. I can't even imagine what losing his leg below the knee would do to his psyche. I often tell myself that he wouldn't have wanted to live like that, but at this point, I don't care what he would have wanted. I wanted him to live. I don't care if I would have had to push him around in a grocery cart. I'd take him no matter what.
I never saw him without the leg. My poor dad. God. **tears******tears*****tears****tears***
Sometimes it's still so raw. Like a paper cut you kinda forget you have, until you bash it against something over and over again. Some days are good. I either don't think about it, or I remember the good times. But, there are days where I just relive everything, and think about him. What a guy he was. He left an enormous hole in my life when he died.
Every once in a while, I'll dream about him, as I've indicated about 47 thousand times in different posts. Those dreams I remember fondly, because they are such good communication dreams. But lately, I"ve been having different dreams about my dad. Dreams where I wake up with his image on my eyes like a gossamer thread. Like cotton candy that's been pulled apart. I don't remember any actual conversation happening in these dreams, but his wonderful face is right there on my verge of sleep and awake. I think he comes and visits me in these dreams just to let me see that he's whole and robust again. Not necessarily to tell me anything, like he has in dreams past.
Isn't it funny how long I can go on and on about this? Sometimes when I blog about my dad, I just let the tears fall and pool down my bra. Sometimes I smile, sometimes I laugh out loud. Sometimes I fight the release of tears, because, to be honest, I'm not sure sometimes if they'll ever stop.
I guess sometimes I blame myself. Not for him dying, necessarily, but because I talked him into getting his leg removed. Well, "talked into" is kind of a loose term. It was the doctor saying, "We have to take the leg or you'll die." But, man. Sometimes I wish I would have convinced him to keep the leg, but is gangrene a good way to die? I can't imagine it is. He did what the doctors told him to do, and look what happened. They were supposed to remove his leg to save him, not to kill him. Catch-22? I suppose so. I don't like to think my dad had a death sentence no matter what, but we at least had to take the chance that taking the leg below the knee would save him from gangrene. He already had proven that he could get gangrene. That's how he lost first one toe, then three, then part of his foot, then his leg below the knee.
His doctor told me that if he didn't get the leg removed, he would slowly lose ALL of his kidney function. As it was, he was only at 10% function each. Then, he would slowly go blind. Then he would slowly die of the various ailments that come from being a diabetic. So, I guess the decision was made to, um, kill him quickly? I know there was no way to know that he would DIE after the surgery. They think he threw a blood clot. I guess if there's a way to go, that would be it. I'd choose to go that fast, to tell the truth. But, I'm just selfish enough to maybe wish that he wouldn't have agreed to the surgery. That he maybe should have slowly lost his kidney function, and gone blind, and...??? WHAT???? No way in hell would I wish that. I have seen people die slowly. It ain't pretty. Let me tell you. My wish for everyone would be to die quickly. I often tell people that I never had the chance to say goodbye and all the things that could have been said, but I'd give up saying goodbye a million times over before I'd watch Dad suffer for five minutes. When it comes to that aspect, I guess I have it good.
I do sometimes wish I'd been there during his last moments. Knowing what I know now, at least. Things happen for a reason, I'm convinced. I wasn't there, because I wasn't meant to be there. If I had been meant to be there, I would have been. But, knowing what I know now, I would have held his hand and told him that I loved him so much. And I'd miss him so much that I would want to eat matches and dirt. I would kiss his forehead and tell him to say hello to grandma and grandpa. I would tell him to visit me in my dreams. I'd tell him that he was my hero. I'd tell him I'd see him again someday. Then, when I knew he was gone, I'd scream and try to wake him up like I actually did in the hospital that terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. Because, see, I'm not that good at saying goodbye. Well, saying goodbye I'm not bad at, I'm bad at the concept of saying it forever.
So, that's my story of hating the State Fair. It feels good to spew this sadness in type. Takes it out of my brain. Puts it on paper. These are SOOOOOOO LOOOOONNNNNNNGGGG, but you know what? I have all this inside my head! Imagine! Sometimes there doesn't seem to be room for anything else, so I have to jettison this stuff in order to make more room. Plus, my dad reads these from heaven. Did you know that? It's true. (And, he's laughing about eating matches and dirt. See, when I was pregnant with my daughter, he laughed at me because I craved dirt and burnt wood. I wanted to EAT them. I never did, but I wanted to. )
So, Dad...I'm going to the fair for you again this year. Walk with me if you'd like. Just leave your Espadrille at home. I love you so much and miss you with every fiber of my being, my neighbor's being, my boss's being, the guy at the gas station's being, my Schwan's man's being...well, you get the idea. Good night. My love will fly to you each night on angel's wings.
posted by Nebraska Angie @ 10:45 PM
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