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I should have recognized the
signs, but I didn’t. Can blaming my shortsightedness of the condition on my own
weariness be an ample excuse? I don’t know.
I feel terrible that I didn’t
know… I should have, but I didn’t.
“Mamma, will Pop-Pop be
alright?"
With my eyes glued on the
ambulance driving away, I grab her small hand very tightly and softly whisper,
“I hope so, baby girl, I hope so."
Three hours later, my restless
daughter and I are in The Marian County Emergency Room alongside my ailing
father as he sleeps peacefully in the hospital bed. I am informed that he is in
congestive heart failure and renal failure.
Why didn’t I see the signs?
Tenderly stroking his tousled,
white hair, I quietly begin to hum the song we’d sing together a long, long
time ago….
***
“Daddy’s home, daddy’s home!"
“Jud-eee, you can’t leave us! We’re
still playing!"
“Oh, yes I can! My daddy promised he’d build me my dollhouse today!"
Before I could spit, I was home
and in his arms. Laughing aloud, he asks, “You ready, Judikins?"
Clapping my hands in joy, I
enthusiastically shout aloud, “Yes, daddy, I am!"
Still in his police uniform, he
quickly changes into “work clothes." Good-naturedly, my mom hands us a pitcher
of Kool-Aid as we escape to his workshop in the basement. I am too little to
use most of the tools, but he gives me the “most important" part of the job to
do: paint the outside shutters any color I chose.
Always with a song in his heart,
he is happily singing as my very own Victorian House comes to life.
“Oh, daddy, it is the most
beautiful house I’ve ever seen!"
“Wait, Judikins, after you paint
the shutters, I have a surprise for you."
Hardly able to contain my
excitement, I carefully paint each shutter a deep, forest green. Pleased with
the results, I nudge my father for my surprise.
“You ready?"
“Yes!"
Winking, he motions me to ring
the front doorbell of the house. Obediently, I do and it immediately chimes the
first few notes of the song, “The Glory of Love."
“Oh, daddy, that makes this a
perfect house!" Jumping into his arms, I squeeze his neck, and, as we admire
the new dollhouse, we both sing “our" song:
“…As long as there's the two
of us,
We've got the world and all
it's charms…
…That's the story of, that's
the glory of love…."
***
I am awoken to reality by a tap
on my shoulder. I look up and the night nurse is speaking to me. “Mrs. Lake,
you’ve been dreaming or something, but you have got to get that little girl
home. We’ve got a room for your daddy and he’ll be fine."
In agreement, I pick up my
sleeping child, and, passing the nurses station, am stopped by the head nurse,
Rose.
“Mrs. Lake, I am sure everything
will be fine but are there any next of kin you’d like me to contact for you?"
Without hesitation, I coldly
reply, “Thank you, Rose, but no. There is no one," and walk straight through
the exit door.
I allow the tears to flow freely
from me as I drive home. I am not an only child but have lived as one for many
years. The youngest of three siblings, I buried my mother alone and am now a
solo caregiver for my aging father.
It shouldn’t be this way, but it
is.
My eighty-four year old father,
who is now more my “son," was a very good “daddy:" he worked hard, provided
well for us and loved his children very much. He was a good son-in-law and was
a better son to my grandparents then their own.
Sometime during his mid-life,
however, something happened to him and he changed. Experts referred to it as
being a “dry drunk" but I tend to believe that mental illness is in his genes.
When his children were all grown, my father began to become more and more
eccentric and less and less of a “father."
But I remember. Yes, I remember
the many wonderful memories he gave me as a little girl. He always made me feel
like a princess and I adored him.
He is the man in my life who
taught me how to love purely and unconditionally. Through my father, I saw
beauty and a song in everything. Through him, I understood God early.
As I put my own “sleepy-head" to
bed, I empty his plastic bag of soiled clothes the nurses had given me. Before
putting them in the washing machine, I carefully check all the pockets and
remove his wallet. Curious, I glance through it and find his old police shield
number 506, his wedding picture and pictures of his three children.
I also notice an old, worn,
yellowed piece of paper in the last photo slot of his wallet and carefully
remove it. Immediately, I recognize the child-like print as my own written over
forty years ago:
Daddy, surprise! I hope your
day is magical and I always want you to know how much I love you. While you
walk your beat today, it’ll be me singing in your heart:
You've got to give a little,
take a little,
And let your poor heart break
a little.
That's the story of, that's
the glory of love.
You've got to laugh a little,
cry a little,
Until the clouds roll by a
little.
That's the story of, that's
the glory of love.
As long as there's the two of
us,
We've got the world and all
it's charms.
And when the world is through
with us,
We've got each other's arms.
You've got to win a little,
lose a little,
Yes, and always have the
blues a little.
That's the story of, that's
the glory of love…
With all of my love and
kisses forever, Your Judikins
Oh, yes, I remember and, yes, I
love him.
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