Growing Up
valerie radek
Nothing in my life has changed me more than my father. He sat in a wheelchair most of the time. His weight continually dropped. Mom had to feed him dinner and friends came over to bather him. He never did anything on his own; he usually required assistance of some sort. I never remember him working. He spent most of his time watching t.v. He always helped with homework by explaining things I did not understand. He spent three months in the hospital. I went to the hospital every night, but because of hospital regulations, I only saw him once or twice.
Once his condition became stable, the doctors allowed him to come home. Vitamins, bandages, ointments and other medical supply boxes filled the basement. We had a car with a lift that allowed dad to sit in his wheelchair in the car. For a few years, mom worked and dad stayed home to raise us. To me, this was a part of my life and nothing out of the ordinary. He never moved unless someone moved him. I would go see him every day after school and tell him about my day. In his eyes, I could see the pain just lying there caused him. The tubes running in and out of him to help with breathing and eating never appeared to bother him. By now, I knew, mom fed him through a tube in his side. He no longer had the ability to swallow food. When I asked him a question, he did his best to answer using words or sounds. Otherwise I would say the alphabet and he would make a gesture or sound when I got to the letter he was looking for. After repeating this process several times, we were able to spell out what he needed.
As I watched him, I missed the days passed and hoped for better ones. I remembered the days of walking home from kindergarten and making lunch for the two of us. We usually had peanut butter sandwiches on “elephant” bread. After the sandwiches were made, we smushed them down and made them paper thin. We would laugh, enjoy lunch, and talk about school. We spent many evenings in my parents’ bedroom watching television. If dad was lying in his bed or sitting in his lazy-boy, my brother Dan, my sister Sheryl or I would get to sit in his wheelchair. If we had behaved, dad would give us a piece of candy from the stash mom had for him in his drawer.
As the days went by, he never appeared to change much, until I came home from school on the first day of fourth grade. When Dan and I arrived home, we found a note on the table telling us to go the neighbor’s house. The neighbor took us to the hospital. At the hospital, they allowed Dan and me to see my father. He looked the same as I remembered him except his eyes were closed. I stood there wondering how long he would be in the hospital this time. Dan and I left mom at the hospital. When she returned, she called Dan, Sheryl and me into Dan’s room. Annoyed that she had interrupted my television show, I trudged upstairs. Mom sat us down in Dan’s room. The only light was the reflection from the kitchen for the shades were down in Dan’s room. Mom gathered us together and gently told us dad had died. At this point, Sheryl, Dan and mom all began to cry. It took a few seconds to register with me, but then I began to cry too.
The days that followed were a blur. People filled the kitchen. Friends and relatives were on the phone to talking amongst themselves. I did not go back to school for a week. I spent hours in a funeral home listening to people tell me how sorry they were and if I needed anything just call. At the cemetary, a prayer was said, but I heard none of it. The dark skies and muggy weather fit the somber mood of the day. I just stared at that litttle tin can with my father’s ashes in it realizing what his death really meant. He would miss the graduations, weddings, and grandchildren still to come. My father would never get the chance to walk me down the aisle or give me away in marriage. No more hugs and kisses goodnight. He would never know what it was like to hold his grandchildren. He would be at all of these events in spirit, but it would not be the same. His death took a part of my childhood with him. Not a day goes by when I do not think of him and how special he was.
Looking back now, I realize that as I grew up and became more independent, my father had become more dependent. His life slowly faded away before his eyes and there was not a thing anyone could do to stop it. His death shocked me.
I had known he was sick but never thought of him a dying.
