Slobberhounds and Englishmen

My father was born March 19, 1934, a sturdy mix of English/Irish with a good dose of Minnesotan thrown in as well. In homage to his heritage, he was a fairly stoic man who kept most of his emotions close to his vest. He was free with his laughter, but I don't remember that I ever saw him cry. I only recall ever hugging him twice - once before he left for the hospital for surgery and then again when I was about to leave home for Texas.

Remembrances of my dad are jumbled and scattered and don't seem to follow any type of linear movement.

When he still farmed, I remember that he accidentally plowed up a rabbit burrow; he called to me from the field and as I met him, he placed a baby bunny in my hands. I took good care of Ginger; unfortunately, after we moved him to a pen outside, he was killed by what I think was a weasel.

Dad was in a band with his brothers called "The Country Boys" - he played bass but I assume he could play lead as well, since we had an acoustic guitar in the house. I imagine I got my musical talent from him, if such things are indeed hereditary.

He never outwardly showed love to the cats we owned, who invariably liked to climb up into his lap to catch a nap. But when he didn't think we were looking, he would reach down to pet Smokey or Eddie or Duncan ("Old cat," as Dad called him) and he never put them back on the floor.

He liked to grill, even in the dead of winter. Mom and I liked our hot dogs burned to a crisp so Dad would stand out there in the cold, eventually bringing in a plate of hot dogs...only to be sent back outside because the dogs weren't black enough. Once, he made chicken on the grill, and fussed that it had turned out too dry. Reaching the dessert portion of the meal, he asked Mom if her cake were dry. She said, "No. You didn't grill it." He took her jibe in good humor; if I remember correctly, it nearly put me under the table with laughter.

He was diagnosed with colon cancer in either 2001 or 2002 (I think it was 2002, but would need to check my journals for confirmation). He had colon resection, which he went through with flying colors, and was placed on an oral form of chemotherapy medication. My best friend Melissa was returning to Texas for her wedding in October 2002 and my parents made the trip; they considered Lissa an adoptive child and wouldn't consider missing her big day. They were staying in the same hotel as Melissa and Dan, her husband-to-be. My mother is the type to make the bed and to tidy up when she stays in a hotel. I told her that she didn't have to do it; the housekeepers would take care of it.

I remember that we were all in Lissa and Dan's room, and Dad was sitting in the corner. I could sense that he was bursting to tell us something, could barely hide his Cheshire grin. I said, "Okay, Dad, what are you dying to tell us?" He proudly and gleefully said, "Your mother made the bed." He was so excited that he could tattle on her, his eyes twinkling and crinkling up as he laughed.

The cancer didn't shrink as much as his doctor liked, so he was put on stronger and stronger forms of chemo which took a greater and greater toll. Come the first part of November 2004, he was in the hospital. His body had had enough, it had been decimated by the poison; after a hospital stay of a couple weeks, there was nothing more that could be done and he was moved to a nursing home.

Mom called on November 28. She said that the nursing staff said it probably wouldn't be much longer - considering these folks knew their business, I didn't doubt that they were right. Mom told me I didn't have to come, which wasn't even an option. My now-husband Eli and I were in the car and at his side within minutes.

A death watch is never a pleasant experience. I kept willing Dad to go, silently telling him it was okay. He was suffering, a hollowed-out shell of his formerly robust self, and he needed to leave the pain behind. Every time he would breathe out, our eyes would travel to the bed. I can't speak for Eli and for my mom, but I think all of us were probably begging him not to take another breath.

Finally, it was so. Like doctors in the medical dramas on TV, I automatically looked to the clock to note the time; it was 2:13 p.m. [I found out later from Mom that his father had also died at 2:13 p.m.] The next few moments are a bit of a blur. I think Eli went out to summon a nurse; I don't recall if I hugged Mom or just stood near her as the nurses came in to verify his passing. They quietly left the room to allow us some time alone. Mom and I were crying, hugging, and I was telling her that it would be okay. I moved to Dad's side, leaned down to kiss his brow, silently whispered to him to have a good journey.

Sunday night, the evening of Father's Day, I dreamed. I was at the church where I work, and there was a wake in progress. I was sitting in the room reserved for the grieving family members. There were people all around me, but I don't know that I recognized any of them. I looked across the room and noticed Princess, my dad's beloved bloodhound, stretched out, eyes just as rheumy and jowls just as slobbery as they had been in real life. I moved to her, reached down to pat her on the head, and in my peripheral vision, I noticed my dad sitting in the corner. He stood and I walked to him and put my arms around him. I can't remember if he spoke. I think I may've said, "I love you" before I woke up, noticing as I came awake that I was crying, much as I'm doing now as I write this.

My aunt (Mom's youngest sister) Susie has sensed my dad before. Out of the blue, she's smelled the cherry pipe tobacco of which he was fond. Just recently, she had an experience where a strange misty smoke appeared in her room and swirled to form the faces of four people, of which my father was one.

I've really not had any experiences of my father since his death, either subtle or blatant, that would alert me to his continued presence. I like to think my dream was his way of saying, "Princess and I are alright."