Poem provided by: frequentlyinterrupted.com
Last night I had a dream about my father's little sister, the aunt for which I was named (middle, not first name). She used to be cool to me. I liked that even though my father had alienated himself from most of his siblings, she was still one of the few who popped in to check on him; at least before he got sick.
Being quarantined allots you plenty of time to reflect on life. It was around this time last year that I lost my father. On April 2nd at 2:00 A. M., he took his last breath. My cousins, who had been sitting with him through the night to help out his caretaker, called screaming into the phone what I already knew. I sat straight up in my bed, not knowing whether to join them in wailing, or keep a focused mind so that I could get the details I needed to begin making arrangements for his funeral. I chose the latter, because though my heart was hurting, I couldn't allow those feelings to cloud my thoughts. Besides, at that moment, Daddy didn't need me wailing. What good was that? It served to accomplish nothing but to put off time making plans for his final resting place.
In his final weeks, I took visits down to Louisiana to be with him, and see about his needs. I remember it being one of the most stressful moments of my life. On top of taking care of Daddy, I had to deal with his family and their many questions on what I was going to do, as well as their many "suggestions" on what they thought I should do.
One time in particular replays itself in my head over and over, and I have to fight continuously not to hold this moment as a reason to resent the aunt for whom I'd been named. I had just driven in, and the trip had taken longer than expected. Whether it was traffic or construction, I can't remember, I just know it had taken me five hours. As soon as I walked in to sit at my father's bed, she asked me if I knew anything about large sums of money he typically hides around the house. She said that she and my other aunt had been up all night looking for it.
I thought the question was odd, seeing as how I'd never known my father to hide large sums of money anywhere. Also, at the time, it didn't matter to me. If he did have money, he made sure to keep it on his person or in the bank. Besides that, he lived on a fixed income since he had long passed the age of retirement.
I noticed that this so-called money seemed to be her full concern throughout my visit. On occasion I would catch her staring at me out of the sides of her eyes as if she thought I was hiding something myself. For me, it was a shame. My main focus was not on any kind of money, but on my father, who was dying right before our eyes. He was in so much pain, our conversations could barely be heard over his cries. Any time we needed to say something important, we had to step outside on the porch. This is where my aunt and I had our biggest face-to-face confrontation.
I was tired from days of nonstop worry, work, and questioning from my family about my father's final arrangements. I didn't have the security of my husband or children being there to help me, so in my mind, it was just me against my own flesh and blood. I thanked God every day for Daddy's caretaker. She was the only one I felt really had his best interest at heart without a personal agenda. She willingly helped without asking for anything in return. For that, she was more family to me than my own.
One day, angered by my aunt's gall in her insinuations about where I should be giving his life insurance money, I told my aunt that I was here, taking care of him when I had not received the same while growing up. As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back, but her words kept my apology at bay. A quick flash of how I was just at my father's bedside, whispering how I would never leave him, after everyone else had left the room, played out in me mind. She kept telling me that he was my responsibility because I was his next of kin, as if I didn't already know that. What got me, was how she refused to do anything for her brother but sit at his death bed and say how he was getting what he deserved after the life he lived. Even as he lay there crying out in pain, she refused to learn how to administer his morphine because she didn't want to learn. My father could hear every word. She was under the impression that he didn't understand, but he did. I knew this because when everyone had left, and it was just he and I, when I spoke, he replied.
After I let those dreaded words fall out of my mouth, she told me I needed to just get over it. I told her I was, but I wanted her to know that despite my past, I had chosen to take care of my father, hoping this would help her see that nothing about what money he had kept me coming around, it was just him and our relationship.
This morning I dreamed about that exact moment on the porch with my aunt, except this time, I really let her have it. It seems after confrontation we always look back and see what we could have said differently, and it typically bends to the side of really going off on the other person. I woke up from the dream feeling vindicated. After all, just before my father's funeral services my aunt had threatened my mother, telling her that if she ever were to set foot in Crowley she would cut her legs off. Mama was so shocked, because she thought they were friends. I later learned from my father's other sisters that this particular aunt had always been a bully.
Even after the funeral she continued to spread lies about me; going so far as to say I lived off my father and was a party girl. The notion was so hilarious; no one believed it. But the knowledge of the threat to my mother didn't make me treat her any differently during the services. I personally handed her Daddy's obituary. She took it, and then introduced me to other members of the family I didn't know. I could tell by the look in her eyes, she felt ashamed. There was no need in me adding to it. Besides, the Bible speaks very clear about how to handle people like my aunt, and though I may have been very angry, I wasn't going to allow her to have the power to ruin my father's final life celebration.
All of the drama, and wondering what I was going to do with my father's life insurance money; an inheritance he left solely to me, did not bring him back. He had suffered a horrible death, by the end, his caretaker said his moans had gotten so loud, his body so weak, right before he took his last breath she whispered in his ears that it was okay for him to let go. He had been forgiven and made right with God. The last of his blood poured from his colon, soaking the bed and causing his frail frame to seemingly collapse to nothing. It was only then he let out a long drawn out exhale, and left the defeated shell of the man he used to be. He was gone, and no longer in pain. Of that, I was relieved.
Daddy wanted to be cremated, and though I was against it, I honored his wish. I made a promise to myself that one day I would bury him in the place he'd always longed to go back to, and I will; just not yet. For now my father is still with me, while I prepare in my heart to give his ashes to the place he loved. I don't know what it was about Fort Worth, Texas that captured his allegiance, but its where he wanted to be, so I'll honor that wish too.
As for Daddy's family, I'll love them from a distance while I tend to my own for now. When all was said and done, I never asked them for a dime to bury my father. All those worries they had about how I would take care of everything were for nothing. God put in my path many who didn't even know my father, but were willing to help me prepare to say good-bye. I thank them for that. Most importantly, I thank God for his provision, because I never thought I'd have the strength to bury a parent without it.
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