2 Years.
2 Years ago, everything changed.
2 Years ago, my world shifted on its axis, blasted out of orbit by the death of my father.
We knew it was coming. All the signs were there. Mentally, I think he’d been kinda gone for a few weeks. Possibly since the hospital trip in February (2 months before).
Terminal cancer is an asshole.
It doesn’t care that your dad is only 61. It doesn’t care that it was his birthday and one of his stepsons couldn’t make it. It doesn’t care that even though we knew it was coming, I don’t feel like any of us were “ready” for it.
Cancer DOES NOT care.
Today, I want to scream at the sky. I want to throw things and listen to them shatter and break into millions of pieces, like my heart did that day. I want to cry until I drown in the tears.
The pain today feels as fresh as the day it happened. I can still smell the room, the smell is indescribably my father. I don’t have words for it, but it’s the smell of his t-shirts, hats, and his truck. I can still hear his gaspy raspy breaths, the labored way his chest jerked up and down as it prepared to stop.
If I let the memory in, I can still feel the way the electricity in the air changed seconds before his breathing stopped. The way all the hairs on my skin rose to attention, as though leaning toward him. The way my brothers, my stepmother, and I looked at each other, knowing immediately what was happening. The way the dog sprang onto the hospital bed set up in the dining area, the dog eager to get to my father.
The energy in the room during the few moments leading up to and just after my father passed away was something I’ve never experienced before in my entire life and maybe I never will. I felt and watched my father’s soul leave his body. It’s something I’ll never forget.
As I reflect during this moment of calm in my storm-riddled day, I want to say something. My dad and I didn’t always get along. We didn’t speak for long periods of time. But, I ALWAYS thought my dad was invincible. I never saw him get sick. I rarely saw him injured. I never saw him miss work or cancel an obligation. I rarely heard him complain.
Watching him die was the hardest thing I’ve EVER had to do, and even if it haunts me for my entire life, I wouldn’t take back a moment of it. Helping him through his weakest moments was the only thing I could have ever given him to prove that I loved him and that he did a good job. He was a world-class dad, even when he wasn’t. He was real. He was human. He was my dad.
And I’d give anything to have him back.
Cathy Marie Bown
Cathy Marie Bown 