When the child becomes the parent

Dad passed away yesterday, one week after I wrote the story below. 

My Dad has cancer. Our family is now part of that club that no one wants to belong to. But once you’re in it, you’re forever a member. Your mind flashes back to all of the stories of friends and family from the past and suddenly you’re hearing them again. But this time, you’re hearing them in a language you actually understand. You’ve been initiated.

No more radiation, No more chemo. Dad is dying. The man who raised my sister and me along with Mom. The man who left the house every morning wearing a tie, a Mad Men-worthy hat with briefcase in hand. The man who meticulously twist-tied every single light on the Christmas tree (sometimes a 2-day process) while we waited anxiously to hang the first ornaments. The man who believed without a doubt that road trips were to be conquered with relish. And the only good reason for a stop was an empty tank of gas. The fact that he traveled with three females (two of whom had infamously small bladders) must have been a great test of his will. 

 Dad and Mom are from an era when you do not ask of others. They are honest, hearty, hard-working native Nebraskans. One does not need help. And for the last 61 years as a married couple, they never asked for it as far as I know.

Enter bone cancer. It came into our lives quickly. After metastasizing slowly from his kidney. A diagnosis at the end of March quickly escalated to hospice three weeks ago. A new world. A different language. The club has new members.

His request was (and still is) simple, really. “Let me die at home.” Mom, 84 like him, bravely led the charge. But as quickly as the cancer grew, so did the job. When I arrived to help out a few weeks ago, Mom was exhausted on every possible level. She was going to do it all.  Because that’s what people like my parents do. I took her to ER the next morning.

That was the moment when it was time. Time for the child to become the parent. My sister and I have shared the blurry trek from Washington State to remote Northern New Mexico. There, we’ve helped order hospital beds, moved furniture and art, coaxed Dad to suffer the indignities of helplessness as he took on a quiet newfound dignity, even handed over driver’s licenses to pick up the controlled substances that make him forget the terrible pain that is eating his body. We learned to navigate the volunteer system, hire experienced caregivers in a small New Mexico town (“This isn’t Albuquerque you know,”) and convinced Mom that yes, the retired minister neighbor and his outgoing wife, yes, the neighbor who lost her husband to ALS and yes, the man who survived cancer really do want her to call.  They’re in the club after all.

This trip, I brought my two children. To see their grandpa. To let him see them. In his brief good moments, he shared gifts and wisdom with them. He openly stared at them as they sat, uncomfortable but sagely understanding under the scrutiny.

We’re heading back home now.

An early goodbye with lots of hugs and quickly-wiped tears, an hour and change drive to the closest public airport, a hefty layover and then the last flight. Home stretch. My 12-year-old daughter and I decided to watch the in-flight movie: A sappy, painfully predicable love story.

And then, I lost it. Have you ever seen anyone openly sobbing during a ridiculously cheesy movie on a plane? That was me. My daughter looked over with concern. I wiped the tears quickly and apologized.

She looked at me, said “it’s okay,” laid her head against mine and gently patted my arm. In that moment the child once again became the parent.