Christopher Buckley pens something that's a bit long but well worth the read: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/26/magazine/26buckley-t.html?&pagewanted=all. It's interesting not only from the standpoint of allowing us to peek into the world of the Buckley family, and along with it much of the American political elite and associative odd behavior, but also Christopher's own journey of accompanying his father through the last year or so of his death, and also the last month or so of his mother's demise. It's inevitable that we'll all be orphans--well, that is if we outlive our parents--some of 'em are pretty tough old birds and might outlast us. Like the younger Buckley, I spent a lot of time with my old man from the time of his diagnosis of terminal lung cancer to holding his hand when he drew his last breath. If you haven't been through the process, you'll find that you learn a lot about what goes into dying, as well as reflecting on your own mortality. While my dad did not suffer a pain wracked deterioration toward death, it's nevertheless something that wasn't pleasant to behold, especially the final stages. I made the two hour drive over to my parents' house every Saturday morning for those nine months to be there in time to cook him breakfast (he never lost his appetite and liked having fried eggs and biscuits) and to also help out my mom a little around the house. In the last three or four months, he was on some fairly heavy morphine doses, so he faded in and out a lot during the process and discussing anything substantive was not realistic. I had always maybe hoped for some lasting heart to heart conversations of a profound nature, but they didn't come and I suppose they don't come for most. You're pretty much who you are at that point and issues don't necessarily suddenly clarify or become resolved; they just end. After the diagnosis, however, he did do a few things out of character, namely he did talk about the war a little with me, something he never liked doing and I sort of wrote down the story he told me regarding his involvement in one Pacific engagementhttp://ussslcca25.com/fletcher.htm#top. But, he wouldn't talk about other battles like Tarawa--some things he never get over and would remain nailed shut for all time. Probably better that they did.
2 comments:
My dad is 93 and is in decent physical shape. But, his spirit has been broken since my mom died a couple of years ago. He talks a lot about his early life, but almost never mentions my mom or anything that happened in his life after about 1940.
Like you with your dad, I've hoped for a sort of spiritual connection with him. I asked leading questions such as "You lived through the depression, your dad died when you were 19, then WWII. How did you keep your sanity through all that?" He changed the subject. He probably survived all of that by training hiself to put pain out of his mind, just ignore it. He's not going to change now.
Just hours before my mom died after being comatose for about a week, he said he thought she would be fine. Even then, he was avoiding reality as he had trained himself to do his whole life. It's tempting to be critical of how he handled things, but I can't honestly say I would have done it differently.
Had a similar experience with my dad less than a year ago. As both of you mentioned, a lot of things went unspoken and unanswered. My family was textbook dysfunctional, although we didn't know it at the time - hell, they didn't even have a name for us other than "typical American family. Anyway, I would like to have heard him reflect on our family a little, but never did. I did, though, get a bit of insight that I won't forget.
His last hours were hard, as the slightest breath was a big chore for dad, and the payoff very small. I had been alone with him for a while when he suddenly called me to him, struggling to remove his oxygen mask. I rushed to him, startled at his urgency - he had been quiet for hours. He was able to get his mask off, and -using all of his breath and strength - said "Please be careful crossing the street. There are a lot of cars out there."
Now, I wasn't going anywhere -certainly not on foot. And his were not the eyes of an 83 year old man looking at his grown son. No, I'd like to think that in his last hours he was reliving his time as a father of young children. And whether or not it was oxygen depravation or dementia, I don't really care. He was "where" or "when" he wanted to be - the best part of his life.
And I guess that's all I really need to know.
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