Still Teaching

 Still Teaching

I was watching my father slowly pass away. Two years ago, he was diagnosed with leukemia, a grim prognosis at the age of 84. Fortunately, as his condition progressed his primary symptom was tiredness and lassitude after chemotherapy. He never complained during the twice-weekly rounds of transfusions and infusions. Now, we were in that quiet place, the place of no return, the place of hushed whispers, periodic beeps, dim lights, and waiting. It is a calm and breathless place; one we knew was in our future but never spoke about except in brief elliptical phrases. We did everything we could to avoid it, but it arrived inexorably.

Here the moments drag on, but the hours race by. We make innocuous small talk all the while aching to say meaningful things. It is too late for a close hug, so we settle for a soft touch, a gentle press of the hand, a lingering brush. We gather in the hall, looking away and talking awkwardly as the nurses take care of those necessary functions we mastered so long ago and now have slipped away, lost as the shell crumbles. Task complete, we reenter the room and pick up where we left off, trying to reinforce connections forged long ago, now corroded by disease and infirmity. We engage in those anxious conversations, “Dad, do you have any instructions for your memorial service?”

Long moments pass. “Dad, if you have any wishes regarding your funeral now is the time to tell me.”

Again, long moments pass with no response. Worried that he has not heard, I lean in close, “Dad is there anything you want done for your funeral service?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t care. I won’t be there.”

“Are you sure? After this conversation, I will not pester you about it anymore.”

Another long pause, “Finally, I’ve finally taught you to stop pestering me.”

Even as the shell crumbles, the sense of humor remains. He cannot let the moment for a good laugh pass. After this, the moments slip past more easily. Soon there is no response, only slow ragged breaths, quickly in and slowly out. “Sing to him,” a nurse urges, “Hearing is the last sense to go.” So, his wife and granddaughter gently sing favorite hymns. And then even the breathing stops. A nurse comes in checks for pulse and pupil reaction. She quietly notes the time and slips out as the tears slip in.

Now a few weeks later, I tap out these thoughts. Across the room, on a shelf, a nondescript white cardboard box sits. Another task passed on to a reluctant son. What do I do with this box of his mortal remains? As he would gladly note, he is not here, just some ashes to either store in a more appropriate container or scatter over a significant place in some sort of poignant ceremony which my brother and I will plan. My father always looked forward, not back, which was rather odd for a man who spent his professional life as a historian. But if you knew him, knew his own history, it made sense. So, I will sit down with my brother and sort through some ideas, developing what we think should be done. That is what we did with the memorial service, and it turned out nicely.