Love Affair, Interrupted: “Just Like That”

Reservation Confirmation for Martha and Earl's Honeymoon in 1948

“The obituary pages tell us of the news that we are dying away while the birth announcements in finer print, off at the side of the page, inform us of our replacements…”—Lewis Thomas, The Lives of a Cell

As my father drew his last breath, he did not rise up to confess the name of an unknown love child or reach out to my mother to proclaim his love one more time. He simply died.

“Is this it?” asked Mother. At 78, she looked like a child who had lost sight of her parents in a crowded shopping mall.

“I think so,” I told her, crying, searching the nurse’s face for a signpost of my own. She nodded.

“Yes,” I said to my mother. “I think this is it.” She climbed onto the hospital bed and lay down beside Daddy, cradling his head in her arms and whispering into his right ear. She was wedged between the side rails and her soulmate. My two sisters and I huddled around the other side of the bed, taking turns telling Daddy good-bye. Later we discovered that Ann and Mother were begging him to stay, while Ginny and I were telling him he could go, his work with us was done, he had done it well. We did not know if Daddy could hear us, and in light of the conflicting messages, maybe it’s best if he didn’t. It’s a good thing Daddy always knew his own mind.

It became obvious rather quickly that my father was indeed dying. Numbers dropped on machines, glowing lines lost their arcs and veered toward flat. I know you’re not supposed to be able to hear hearts break, but I swear I heard something, loud and clear. After twenty-four hours of his head swaying back and forth, his face obscured by an oxygen mask, the first love of my live was gone.

The nurse moved to turn off the machines that accompanied my father from this life to the next. Despite her best efforts, she could not get one of them to stop beeping.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” More beeping.

My friend Mary said when her sister died of skin cancer—she was only 35—there was a death rattle, sort of a guttural sound. All I heard, besides the beeping, was absence. Ann, Ginny, and I helped Mother down from the hospital bed. We gathered ourselves one into the other and moved around the room as a single unit, a glob of grief, not knowing where to go or when to stop. Occasionally one of us reached for a tissue or glanced out the window at the skyline of the city that had served as our family’s backdrop for more than half a century. But mostly we drifted around Daddy’s bed, first one side, then the other.

When Mother sank to the floor in a heap, phrases that didn’t begin to do the scene justice came to mind: thought I might die; took my breath away; hit me like a ton of bricks; I was beside myself. I kept looking for the just-right cliché, but I did not find it. As a daughter, I was speechless. As a writer, I was at a loss for words.

When a doctor entered the room, my mother looked at him square in the face and wailed, “Why did this happen?”

“Blood vessels get weak over time,” he said. “There was nothing we could do.”

“She thinks she might have done something to save him,” I said, softly. “She thinks it’s her fault.”

I was pleading to a stranger for some remnant of reassurance. Anything. The last family member to arrive at the hospital, I wasn’t introduced to the doctors, wasn’t allowed to view X-rays my sisters saw, pictures that convinced them our father could not be saved.

“We’ve already told her it wasn’t her fault,” said Dr. Meany Pants, curtly, before leaving the room. “Your mother knows better.”

Note to self: After suitable mourning period, confront people who piss me off during the process.

The curtain that separated us from the rest of the world, the world of the living, made a slight shushing sound as it came together behind the doctor.

“Wow, the color sure goes out of you fast,” I said to the nurse, as my father faded to white from his head down.

“Yes, it does,” she replied.

Did I just use the word “wow”? Surely something more meaningful was in order.

“How long can we stay?”

“As long as you like.”

“We might be here a while, then,” I said, but I did not know how long would be long enough. I did not know anything.

I asked the nurse to remove Daddy’s oxygen mask and take out his mouthpiece. The minute she did, I was almost sorry, because then I could really see my precious father’s face. I was reminded this was not some sort of terrible mix-up, like when surgeons remove a kidney instead of a lung or amputate the wrong leg (you read about that all the time). Daddy is dead. Repeat after me.

I made my way toward him—it did not occur to me to say, “the body,” for even without breath, he was still my daddy—and smoothed his bushy eyebrows. In doing so I accidentally raised one of his eyelids and saw into the nothingness of his eyes, eyes that used to light up when he saw any one of his girls come into a room. Always a believer in another world beyond this one, I saw for myself, in that very instant, that something separate from our skin and bones, something apart from our organs and tissue, makes us who we are. Call it spirit, call it soul, call it whatever you wish. Whatever it is, it no longer resided inside my father. Just like that.


6 thoughts on “Love Affair, Interrupted: “Just Like That”

  1. TishaMarie says:

    Wow! You have the words, and they are the perfect ones.

    I was so moved, I forgot to tell you that I am sorry for your immeasurable loss.

  2. Becky Johnson says:

    Amy: Lovely, sad, and oh too familiar. Your writing always moves me in some important way. XO bexter

  3. Connie says:

    Amy,

    I’m so sorry for your family’s loss. It is very difficult to lose a parent. My mom died of melanoma at 44. My mother-in-law died of breast cancer at 63. Both were perfectly healthy, except for having cancer. As my husband and I watch our fathers age, it is hard to decided which is hardest – losing a loved one in their prime or watching the slow decline in physical and mental abilities as they enter the twilight years. I do know that it isn’t easy either way. Losing a parent is simply a hard thing. I think it has a profound effect on how we view the world and live in it. A bittersweetness surrounds you. C.S. Lewis wrote – “With my mother’s death all settled happiness disappeared from my life. There was much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis.” I pray that you, your mom and your sisters find your new way of being after the loss of your father and that it is filled with happiness and fond memories. My heart goes out to you all.

    Blessings ~ Connie

  4. bruce says:

    You are so good at this writing stuff, my dear. You should do it for a living. I could just imagine hearing this on NPR, riding home from work some afternoon, and being stirred to tears. Good job.

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