The Wind in the Chimes

Chapter Eight
The First Day of Both of Our Lives

It was an overcast day with a hint of thunder in the air when we left Los Angeles.  I knew we were beginning our final journey to see Dad.  Never in my life had I had so many emotions rummaging around in my head.  I felt as if I could explode.

It was January of the new millennium and Dad was refusing to get out of bed and come downstairs.  Mom called me and told me she was beside herself, as Dad was refusing to eat and was constantly talking about dying.  I told her she needed to make him get out of bed, as his muscles would begin to atrophy, and if he didn’t eat or drink, he would die of dehydration and malnutrition.  I suggested that she hire a personal nurse to help her with his care.

She called me two days later to tell me she had hired a middle-aged, stout looking woman named Inga to come in three times a week to help take care of Dad. 

Dad liked Inga and responded to her much better than he ever did with Mom.  This was good for Mom, as she now had some free time to see her friends and get errands done. 

But two days later, on January 28^th, Mom called and told me she had gone grocery shopping and came home to find Dad in bed with a plastic bag over his head.  He told her he was trying to catch his breath and not trying to take his life.  She believed him.

I remember thinking you got to be kidding.  Was he that depressed?  Of course he was, but to take your own life you must be desperate.  I couldn’t help but wonder about the mercy killings that Doctor Kervorkian had performed and thought maybe he was not wrong after all.   I knew I needed to go down to Coronado and reassured Mom that I would be there tomorrow after the end of my classes. 

It was cloudy and gray in Los Angeles, and the weather reflected my mood as I drove south to Coronado.  When I arrived at my parents’ home, Mom said that Dad was upstairs and I went directly to his room.  The smell of urine and defecation permeated the air in his bedroom.  Dad was lying in his bed with his eyes closed.  He did not hear me enter the room.

I leaned over and kissed his paper-thin, fair skin and said, “Dad, it is Carol.”

He opened his baby blue eyes and just stared at me for some time and then with his slurred speech said,  “Hi.”

He had reached the Stage IV of Parkinson’s disease and needed assistance for everything.  I raised his hospital bed and suggested that I give him a sponge bath and help get him dressed and into his chair. 

He agreed and told me that this was a good idea. 

After a sponge bath I dressed him in a flannel shirt and sweat pants.  I then lifted him like a sack of cement out of the bed to his chair. 

It was this moment in time that we finally bonded as father and daughter. “Carol, I am sorry for how I have been with you, and I want you to know that I am proud of you and love you very much.”

Oh my god, I had been waiting all of my life to hear these words.  I took a big gulp and responded, “I love you, too, Dad and I forgive you and accept you for who you are.  You are the greatest father a girl could ever ask for.”   At that instant, I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  Why had I carried this grudge around so long?  Why didn’t I take the time to tell him how I felt?

“Carol, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure, Dad, anything you want.”

“Please do not ever let me go into a convalescent home.  When I die I want to die in my own home, in my own bed, with the people I know and love near me.  I do not want to be humiliated by dying in a place I do not know.”