Do I Love Him Enough?

My father’s battle with cancer lasted for many years. And I understand that in some ways, as a family, we were very fortunate in that regard. We were blessed to have him with us for about a decade after he was diagnosed. But the truth of the matter is that he spent most of those last ten years suffering and fighting just to stay alive. At one point, he endured an entire year of chemo. Two Thursdays out of every three, he was in the clinic for a treatment. But again, the family reaped the benefits of his struggle simply by having him here with us. He saw two grandchildren graduate from high school and one grandchild start to school. He was in attendance at all of the birthday parties and holiday functions that we just could not imagine occurring without him. He gave us all a decade of wonderful memories and love that could have easily been lost if he had just given up and let the cancer consume him. But that was not my father’s way. He said that he understood that he had cancer, but he was going to face it and deal with it on his own terms. Giving up was not in his DNA.

So when school was out on summer break, my young son and I always made sure that we had one day a week to spend with my parents. We would go and visit them at the hospital if Dad had chemo, or we would make the hour drive to their house and spend the day with them. Those are days, and hours that I will always cherish. The drive was always worth it the moment that we opened the front door and I watched my son race across the room to hug Grandpa. The smile on both of their faces was enough to brighten the gloom of even cancer.

As the years wore on, it was easy to see that the cancer was taking its toll on Dad. He had always been an avid outdoorsman. He would hunt, fish and hike trails any chance he got. After he retired, he became a fixture at the local state park, where he knew miles of hiking trails better than most folks know their own backyard. But as his body weakened, the trips hunting and fishing became fewer and further between. In the end, his hunting trips consisted of a ride in my brother-in-law’s truck, out to a nice shaded tree. My brother-in-law then spent the remainder of the day chasing game over towards the tree so Dad could have a shot at them. It was a long hard day, but it meant the world to both of them.

Finally, Dad reached a point where even leaning against a tree for a few hours required more strength than he had. His days were then limited to what he could reach from his chair in the living room. It was hard for all of us to see him reduced to an old man who was being held captive in his chair. Just like the spring in an old watch, a beloved family heirloom, my father was winding down before our very eyes.

And though I am quite ashamed to admit it, at times I became very selfish. All I was thinking about was the perceived stress and suffering that the cancer was causing me. I wished at times that it could just all be over. No matter how it ended. Just make it all go away. At other times, I was just simply overrun with a feeling of helplessness. Why could I not do something to ease the pain and the burden of the man that had cared for me for my entire life?

But the answer came to me one day while driving home from my parent’s house. My son and I had been on the road for only about fifteen minutes and I just could not stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. They were tears of sorrow, pain, the fear of what was to come, and I had no control over them. My ten-year-old son looked at me and in a soft quivering voice said, “Mommy, if it is time for Grandpa to go, I love him enough to let him go.”

I was speechless. In just a few short words, my son had captured all that was important in this entire ordeal. He somehow understood that Grandpa had endured enough and that he had done it to protect all of us. Now it was time for us to do what was right for him. My mind swirled in circles, my stomach tightened and heart pounded, and then an odd calm swept across me. The tears stopped flowing, and it all became crystal clear. I needed to love my father as much as his grandson did. I needed to do what was right for him even if it was difficult for me.

Dad was with us for a few more months, but somehow my son had sensed the urgency of what was to come and had helped me to see that it really was going to be ok. Not that I didn’t spend any more time crying, or wishing that there was some way to change the reality of the situation. But in the end, I knew the right thing to do and I was doing my best to make peace with it. I did love him enough.

Dad passed on September 1st, just twelve days before my son’s birthday. In the few days leading up to his passing, the entire family drew close to him. A beloved cousin, brother-in-law and sister-in-law, children and grandchildren all were blessed with the time to visit and say goodbye in their own way. And his loving wife of almost 50 years, knelt at his side and told him that she too loved him enough to let him go on his journey.

I dreaded Dad’s funeral. I didn’t think that I was strong enough to make it through those two days. The viewing the night before the funeral was the first time I would see Dad since I watched them carefully lift him from the couch and carry him out the front door. It had seemed surreal. That could not be my big, strong father in that body-bag. It was so still and lifeless.

My family arrived early so that I would have time to find a way to control all of the emotions that were bombarding me. But as family and friends began to arrive the pain seemed to slide into the shadows. I met people that I had only heard of in stories that Dad would regale us with. I saw family and friends coming together to say a final goodbye to someone who touched each and every soul in the room. It was a sad time, but it was also a time to celebrate the life and the love of this wonderful man that we were all fortunate enough to know and one that I was fortunate enough to call Dad.