On the Death of My Dad, Mercy, and Thank You

One of my favorite things is to give my dog Bird water when we’re in the car. I have a water bottle for him that has a little bowl on top, and when Bird leans over to drink, his tongue always slowly lapping, the moment feels holy. It’s like he’s bending to the water, saying mercy, mercy, thank you, thank you when he drinks.

This is a story about mercy and thank you.

When I went to see my father’s body yesterday at the funeral home, without thinking I spun around and headed back out the door at the first sight of his corpse. My body said, No, but I caught my breath and turned around again and walked to where my dad was lying.

His face was so beautiful. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen my dad so completely at rest. I stood by him, trying to process, body, no life, body, no life, father, no father, father, no father, but it was like trying to do math. I couldn’t process the information.

So I touched his head the way a mother might check if her child has a temperature. My hand was warm and his skin was cool, almost cold. I gently moved his head back and forth to see if he had gone rigid, but his head moved independently of his neck and I did not do that again. I touched the space between his eyebrows. I touched the line of his nose, his lips.

Mercy, mercy, thank you, thank you.

A few days before he died, I’d told myself I would hold his hand when I visited. I couldn’t remember ever holding his hand, and the idea of doing so now scared me, so I thought I should do it. One way for me to feel especially adopted around my father is for me to think of our bodies sharing space. We do not have father/daughter DNA, and there is a strangeness, an unrelatedness, to our bodies that makes intimacy—holding hands, for example, or long hugs—feel wrong to me, like crossing a busy street with my eyes closed.

I did not hold his hand that day, but I did touch his shoulder on the way out. “Bye, Dad.” I said. “I love you.” Those were the last words I said to him in person.

I talked to him by phone the day he died. He was very confused and slurring his words. “I love you,” I said. “And how are you,” he said. “I love you,” he said, and then I think he hung up. I don’t remember. My heart was racing and I was afraid. He sounded like he’d just had a stroke. I called the nurse’s station and they told me they’d adjusted his oxygen levels, and that, yes, he was confused, but that he was in his chair with the TV on, and seemed to be okay. I thought about driving to see him, but it was dark out and I’d get there late at night. I cleaned instead, crying. I threw out any beauty product I had not touched in the last two weeks and organized my junk drawer. I decided to call my daughter and share my fears with her, and we had the nicest, longest conversation we’d had in a long time. After we talked, I turned off my phone and went to bed. A few minutes later, the nurse on duty called to say there was an emergency. But my phone was off.

And my dad was dead.

To my great relief, he had not died alone. Two people had been in the room with him, and when I went to clean out his room in the assisted living complex that next morning they told me he’d died peacefully. They talked about how kind he’d always been, how easy to please.

If I had not come to Massachusetts two years ago to work with the Harvard coach on her book, I would not have had all the time I’d had with my dad. I wouldn’t have gone from being not that close to him to loving him dearly, even if I could only do it in 15-minute increments of time each visit. It’s possible to be close to someone and far away from them at the same time. I’m thankful I got to be close.

He left the world as one who has done his job well and is ready to go home, or at least that is what I read on his face.

I’m thankful I got to say I love you so many times.

The night before he died, I wrote in my journal:

In bed, reading Jenny Offill’s book Dept. of Speculation, my heart races because I love her paragraphs, her thoughts. I feel sick. When I put the book down to really feel how I feel, I imagine I am lined with metal, like the Tin Man is inside of me, only I am round and soft like a woman and no oil will save me because my seams are coming apart as I imagine my dad in his room, alone, more and more unable to breathe, more and more unable to have a thought that makes sense to him. I imagine my dad coming apart, and in the imagining, the terrible, angry things I said to him as a teenager and young adult come rushing in and my body gets even more sick, and I feel like I am about to give birth. The terror of not knowing whether I’ll be able to survive the pain.

Just weeks ago I was talking about how I wished he would die and get it over with, but now I have changed my mind. I want him here.

Please don’t go. I love you so much. Thank you for being my dad. Thank you for my childhood. Thank you for loving me. Thank you. Please don’t go. I feel like when you die, the story of my childhood will be over, and I do not want that to happen.

I am sorry I was not more kind. I am sorry for the ways I hurt you.

Please forgive me.

I forgive you.

I love you.

Stay.

What else can I tell you? I asked him to stay. He went. And it was the best thing he could do.