A pathetic excuse for an apology

 

I saw my father tonight.

Well, I didn’t really see my father, that would be impossible since he passed away two months ago, but…I did.

For reasons that belong to mothers who are mentally and physically exhausted after a long day at work, I stopped to pick up dinner for my son on the way home. After ten hours of nonstop meetings and hard decisions, I simply didn’t have the energy to stand in front of the stove, so the choice was made.  And in retrospect, while I don’t have a faith that any person who actually possesses one would recognize, I think somehow tonight I was meant to be where I was, when I was.

As I stood waiting for my order to be filled, I noticed a small table toward the back where an elderly man was seated.  He was alone, and what caught my eye was not the man himself but the brown t-shirt he was wearing.  It was old and worn, the neck stretched out and hanging slightly askew.  The shirt hung on its wearer’s thin frame, draping and folding as if ashamed it couldn’t do more for the man underneath.

It was my dad’s shirt.

The one he was wearing the morning I woke up and he didn’t.

The one he was wearing when I walked down the hall to check up on him and saw him sitting still in his chair, lifeless.

The one he wore when they wrapped him in the shroud and took him away from me forever.

It startled me to see that shirt and took my breath away, if I’m being honest.  I was a bit irrational for a moment, until I looked at the man wearing the shirt.

Then I became completely irrational.

I had to make a conscious effort to gather myself then and there, or risk losing it in the lobby of a rural fast-food restaurant where they’d likely assume I was a madwoman.

The man was old, probably around my father’s age, with only a few wisps of hair on his head just as my father had in his final few days.  He was eating something and seemed intent on receding into the bench on which he sat.  He mumbled to himself as he ate, and his hands shook as he ate.  Bite after bite, his frail hand would slowly rise to his mouth where he would break off a bit and chew with his toothless mouth.  His hand trembled as he lowered it back to the table, only to repeat the sequence again and again.  He was alone and intent, his eyes never raised from the task at hand.  In his isolation, he never acknowledged anyone else in the restaurant.

I sat there watching, suddenly returning to the last time I tried to get my father to eat.  He’d refused, pushing the fork back at me and denying even a small bite.  Earlier, as I’d tried to get him to take a drink of water, he’d accused me of trying to drown him.  I got frustrated and it was evident in my voice, I’m sure.

Days before, he’d accused me of lying about what was in the refrigerator, and had taken my oldest son to task for trying to starve him. But on that day, that last day when we even tried to get him to eat, he refused and I was stern in response.

The doctor had told us he must eat to maintain strength.

He was refusing, like a child refuses to eat his vegetables.

I was trying, and I was upset that I couldn’t make this man understand the importance of my endeavors.

The man in the restaurant wasn’t alone, as it turns out.  As I struggled with my own demons there in the lobby, I noticed another table of men sitting together and realized they were residents of the nearby group home. The man I’d been watching was likely mentally disabled as were most of the residents there.

I drew in a sharp breath as I realized that my father, in the end, was also mentally impaired.  He lacked the capacity to understand what was happening, much like this man probably struggled with everyday things like eating.

What the Hell was wrong with me?

I spent my days working to support individuals with disabilities, but when it counted, I was a miserable failure.

I failed my father because I didn’t understand.

All the mental self-flagellation in the world would not change what I had done or who I was in those last few days when it counted.

When I was impatient, unforgiving, and unkind.

When I raised my voice because he wouldn’t stay seated where I left him.

When I insisted he had to eat whether or not he was hungry.

When I told him he had to listen to me because I knew what was best.

When I cursed as he fell and took us both to the floor, not knowing that ten hours later he’d be gone.

There is so much that should have been, and so much that was.  None of it is anything I’m proud of, and most of it is reality I wish I could go back and change.  The truth is, I could use the excuse that I didn’t know he was as close to death as he was, but that isn’t any sort of excuse. It shouldn’t matter if he had one day or ten.

The truth is, sometimes I was scared he wasn’t as close to death as he was.

And that, I suppose, makes me a horrible person.

So, there are some things I need to say, and if you want to stop reading now, I suggest you do.  These words are selfish words, put out into the universe because I hope they will help me feel better about me, not because I expect he’s anywhere to know I’ve said them.  They are the words of a woman who will never have the chance to make right what was wrong and a pitiful attempt to absolve myself of a burden I should rightfully bear for the rest of my days.

They’re an appeal to someone – anyone – to take the guilt from my shoulders when I have no right to ask such a thing.  So here I go…

I’m sorry, Dad.

I’m sorry I left you alone to hear your prognosis when I should have held your hand.

I’m sorry I sat stone-faced in the car on the way home when I should have had words of support.

I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to talk about the end when you did.

I’m sorry I worked on days when I should have been with you.

I’m sorry I was frustrated with your forgetfulness, and I’m sorry I spoke harshly when we disagreed.

I’m sorry I nearly fled on the first day of chemo when I was relieved to have you in the care of someone else for a few hours, and I’m sorry I became so irate when they wanted me to stay.

I’m sorry for making you eat when you weren’t hungry, and I’m sorry for not trying harder in a kind way when I needed to make sure you had nourishment.

I’m sorry for wishing you silent and still and not realizing that soon you would be far too much of both of those things.

I’m sorry I asked your nurse for help in settling you down, and I’m sorry I argued about your meds.

The meds…

Dad, I’m sorry for the meds.

I’m sorry for not knowing what and when and how much, and I’m terrified that I got it wrong.

I’m sorry if I did, because in my mind, that’s certainly why you were gone too soon.

Mostly, I’m sorry for running from the house into the warm night after finding you gone, leaving you alone in the home you shared with my mom.  I’m sorry I wasn’t woman enough to sit with you and be there in the last minutes of your life and in the hours after when the funeral home employees were there to take you.

I’m sorry I left you, Dad, and I’m sorry this was my fault.

I’m so sorry.