Since becoming informed of Dad’s prognosis, “for the last time” has been a theme in my thoughts. He just celebrated my mom’s birthday for the last time. He is about to celebrate Thanksgiving, and soon, Christmas and New Year’s Eve for the last time. If he makes it that long, he’ll celebrate both my brother’s birthday’s for the last time. Every annual thing that happens, for my dad, happens for the last time.
This condition is really a strange one. At least, it seems strange in contrast to what we’re used to on television, especially in sports. When a remarkable athlete decides he will retire at the end of the season, his road games are called a “farewell tour”, and fans flock to the stadiums just to see one player from an opposing team. The player might not do anything memorable–Cal Ripken went 0-7 with 4 strikeouts in his final road game–but people are happy just to say that they were there for the player’s last game.
Now, Cal Ripken probably shouldn’t have played baseball, full time, in 2001. He couldn’t hit for much anymore, and he especially couldn’t hit righthanded pitching. He got by on his reputation, his devoted fanbase, his status as a future Hall of Famer, and the fact that he would only being doing this for one year.
In real life, my Dad could probably go on a sort of farewell tour. Make sure to hit up all of the family holidays and see everybody. Go someplace he’s always wanted to go, do things he’s always wanted to do. These, again, are the TV/movie options. If this was a movie, someone would convince Dad to do these things, and he’d end up in Amsterdam smoking grass, or in Tibet to find himself, or he’d go scuba diving with sharks in the Great Barrier Reef. And then, after he’s done all these wonderful things, he’d finally “get sick”, and end up in a bed someplace, but wouldn’t lose his perspective, and, like Morrie, he’d tell all his friends and relatives to go and Carpe Diem/Live Life to the Full/Do What Makes You Happy/Noli Nothis Permittere Te Terere/Get Your Pets Spade and Neutered/Always Wear Sunscreen.
And then, with tubes sticking out from all over him, we, Dad’s beloved, would sneak him out of the house or hospital, to help him do that final thing he’s always wanted, whatever it is, no matter how ludicrous. If this was a movie, Dad would get to pitch the first inning of Game 7 of the Phillies World Series while the ghost of his brother plays catcher, or something like that. And just days or even hours or minutes after that One Last Thing has been done, Dad will go peacefully into that good night.
That’s a fantasy. And an infuriating one, I’m learning. It’s true, at this point, Dad is physically capable of getting up and going out and doing things. But, like Cal Ripken, it probably doesn’t benefit him, or anything else, much. Would people love to see him? Of course they would. But, really, this scarecrow who was my father, doesn’t eat much anymore, he gets sick, often, he can’t always talk, he sleeps a lot, and he generally sleeps poorly. He’s not exactly “good company”. It would seem unlikely that his body can handle the rigors of travel and adventure. And this isn’t just that he can’t handle in that, he’s too tired, and he needs to sleep. He can’t handle it in that, he could probably die.
Plus, he’s seeing doctors for tests and treatment a few times a week. If he leaves these people, who knows how quickly this all goes to pot.
When I was very young, family Thanksgiving was always at the house my father grew up in. Since the early 1990s, Thanksgiving has always been at my parents’ house. For the first time in at least 15 years, Thanksgiving is going to change locales. The family will gather at my cousin’s house. It’s perfectly fine, and understanding, and, really, it’s probably necessary, but it’s odd.
It also poses a dilemma, for me, at least. I have three options. I can go to my cousin’s and spend Thanksgiving with most of my extended family. I can go to Katie’s, and spend Thanksgiving with her and her siblings and parents and crazy dog. Or I can stay home, in what may be a less than pleasant affair, and spend Thanksgiving with my Dad, for the last time.
The choice, I think, is obvious. It’s just a miserable fact of life that technology and science allow doctors to determine how much time we have left in this world, but they can’t make that limited amount of time livable.
