DADDY'S NOT-SO-LITTLE-GIRL

THE LAST PICTURE I TOOK OF MY FATHER, JERRY ANDERSON

 

 

TOMORROW IS THE FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OF MY FATHER'S DEATH.

His body had been weakened by chronic lymphocytic leukemia.  Three days before his death, his beloved pit bull named Melon Head died from heart failure.  I was his veterinarian.  Dad passed away on a Saturday afternoon.  My husband climbed on the roof cleaning the chimney.  I crouched in the bathroom, changing my daughter's diaper when the phone rang.  Naturally, I ignored it.  After I had everything cleaned up, I came out into the kitchen and hit the PLAY MESSAGES button.

My poor mother, who had already suffered from Alzheimer's for almost ten years, spoke to me:  "Jerry's at the bottom of the stairs.  He's covered in blood and he won't speak to me.  Why won't he speak to me?"

Dad had fallen to his death while attempting to attach a coat hook at the top. 

At the time, I felt grateful he'd died so quickly, because his leukemia had weakened him to the point that he required a blood transfusion every two weeks just to stay alive.  But he was always cold and never felt well.  The doctor told him he needed to consider having chemo again, but Dad refused to give him an answer.

This way he didn't have to decide. 

I still miss him, but I miss the parents of my childhood.  Does everyone else feel this way when their parents die or lose their minds, I wonder.




THE POEM I WROTE ON HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY AFTER HE DIED

 

You wore the uniform of the elderly

A band aid on your elbow and a striped polo tee

A dark belt hiking up your faded old slacks

Your basement packed with things from the past

Inside your clothes

There was too much room

You had never been this skinny

You had never been so cold

I will never again hear your stories retold

 

Now that you’re gone

I see you everywhere

In slow moving vans

Pocket protectors and grey hair

But none of these strangers have your sputtering laugh

Or twenty-five napkins of penned physics graphs

None of them read me the Little House books

Or made TV dinners when Mom couldn’t cook

You ate Quaker Oat Squares

Sat on cracked vinyl chairs                                                                          

Used felt tipped pens

Had church choir friends

Liked big band tunes

Duct taped vacuums

 

But now your basement is empty

And your clothes have been donated

There’s no more chocolate cake for your birthday

And I don’t feel like your little girl anymore