I don’t know that I’ve ever been a great daughter. You know what I mean, some daughters are involved with their families, so active, so present, so busy. I don’t think I’ve ever been that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that there were times that I brought joy and happiness and fun and laughter and goodness to my parents. My best years were probably my first twelve, before the boys and booze–my true great loves (and not in that order). I know I’ve made my parents proud (not with regard to the boys or booze); but I’d be toward the end of a long, long line of women receiving certificates of Outstanding Daughterness. I’m saying all this not so that you’ll pile on and say, “No, Susan, you’re awesome.” Or, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Or, “You aren’t that bad.” I know what I am. And more importantly, what I am not. I can acknowledge it with a sense of acceptance and freedom and that allows me to be more fully in the present.
As evidence of how poor my skills are, one of the areas that I worked to improve was phone communication. That is, when my mom called, instead of letting it go to voicemail and not returning the call for days or weeks, I actually answered. If I wasn’t able to answer, I returned the call as soon as I could. This was a huge improvement. I’m not exaggerating, huge. Think about that: if I can consider this an improvement, you can better understand where I started from. Again, not as a self-denigration, simply as an observational fact. I was a couple months into using my new phone answering skill when my mom called. And even though I was busy sitting around trying to find something to watch on Netflix and wishing I hadn’t forgot to buy microwave popcorn, I answered.
Something was wrong with my dad she said. They were on the way to the hospital. In an ambulance. Something about CPR. “I’m on my way,” I said.
It was a 50 minute drive, but my husband was getting us there quicker. On the highway then the curvy back road to the main route that was a straight shot to the hospital. He drove and I called my brother who lived hours away in another state. His wife answered. “Dad is on his way to the hospital. As soon as I get there and know more about what is going on and how he is doing I will let you know.” But mom had already called them. And maybe she was more clear with them. Or maybe they were more willing or just more able to hear what she said. My brother’s wife said, “No Susan, you don’t understand, your dad has died.”
She was wrong. Not about him being dead, she was right as rain about that. But about me understanding. As soon as she said it, I understood.
We got to the hospital ER and went through a makeshift security center: someone in a guard outfit standing at a podium. He handed us stick on ID tags and let us through. My aunts were there, my dad’s sisters, and my cousin. My dad’s best friend was there too, best friends since high school. They were all sitting in the hall. They showed us where to go, into a room where my mom and dad were. My mom was with her sister, talking, and my dad was lying on the hospital bed. It was propped up a little, so that if he had been alive he would have been comfortable watching the small TV attached high on the wall. But he wasn’t, alive or watching the TV. I went over to him and touched his hand. It was already colder than I remembered. “Oh daddy,” I said. Which was such a strange thing for me to say. Even in the moment I thought, “That’s a strange fucking thing for you to say.” I never called my dad, “daddy.” Till just then.
I stayed in there with my mom for a while. And my dad. And my husband. We went back out in the hall and exchanged “I’m sorry’s” and “I can’t believe its” and my cousin said something true about how shocking it must be to get a call like this. My dad’s friend looked so sad. He looked the saddest.
Of course the next hours and days were a whirlwind of activity and emotion. I saw my dad a couple of more times before they closed his coffin the final time. Sometimes I think about how cold he felt and how cold he must feel now. I know you might think that’s terribly morbid, but it’s what I think about. Not all the time of course, but occasionally, that’s a thought that comes to mind.
At some point I found the stick on ID the security guard had given me when I got to the ER that night, I never had put it on. I must have put it in my pocket or in my purse. It said VISITOR on it. So benign, hopeful, almost. I’ve kept it as some macabre souvenir. I stopped at a convenience store yesterday to use the bathroom and saw one in a garbage can and that’s what made me think of all of this. I wonder what happened to that woman who so casually tossed hers in the waste can in the bathroom stall? I wonder if she is ahead of me in the line for a certificate of Outstanding Daughterness? Did she get to Visit someone at the ER or only touch a cold arm and kiss a cold forehead? She didn’t keep it as a souvenir, so probably just a broken bone.
September 21, 2016 at 3:02 pm
You are a very good writer. This is a very real and honest account of your experience. Thank you for sharing, but most importantly: I am sorry for your loss!
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September 21, 2016 at 5:15 pm
Thank you for your input. I feel like this is my first actual offering, your response is affirming
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September 21, 2016 at 7:31 pm
Of the 3 people who were closest to me and passed away, my Dad, my friend Julia & my Mom, on the occasional passing thought about their deaths, how cold they were to the touch still reverberates. So sorry for your loss…
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September 21, 2016 at 10:14 pm
Susan, your first offering so clear, so real. “Only touch a cold arm or kiss a cold forehead’… The imagery connects with me. Your offering makes me remember my own similar experience. OUTSTANDING DAUGHTERNESS Certificate… Ouch💕
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September 21, 2016 at 10:30 pm
Lisa I am always so grateful for you, that you’ve read & connected to what I’ve written.
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September 21, 2016 at 11:08 pm
Susan you have always written so well. This is so touching to me. You are one amazing person. We all question things we have done in the past and if we were good enough. Well ok at least I do. I am always waiting for that perfect moment as well and thinking everything will be ok when I reach it. But there is alway something else to keep adding to list. I am trying to learn that my prefer moment is the here and now.
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September 21, 2016 at 11:57 pm
Thank you. The only moment we have now. I’m beginning to see that. To grasp it more fully
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September 21, 2016 at 11:11 pm
Susan you are a storyteller. While reading this I felt like you were standing there and just talking. Losing a loved one is so hard and you prepared someone who hasn’t lost anyone yet.
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September 21, 2016 at 11:57 pm
Thank you for saying so.
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September 21, 2016 at 11:50 pm
Aunt Susan, I’m crying and thinking about uncle Biggie right now. Your writing is very detailed and I can’t wait to buy your first novel. You’re a natural story teller. I feel better now. Thanks for sharing this snippet of your life.
Love your
Nephew Pries
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September 21, 2016 at 11:55 pm
Love you.
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September 22, 2016 at 1:37 am
I’m so sorry to hear of your loss, and at the same time, I want to thank you for this post and the honest beauty of it. I would also be at the end of that long line of children. I do the same thing with the phone. I go months without even talking to my parents, and I will still ignore the call just because I don’t want to answer at the moment. But I love them, and your post reminds me that I have a chance to make the same choice you did and actually answer the phone and make time for the family I love who also loves me.
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September 22, 2016 at 12:41 pm
It’s hard to change the habit of ignoring the calls. It’s hard to reach through whatever it is that makes it so hard to pick up. And I’ve had no rose petals or rainbows or movie-ending music playing in the background to mark the accomplishment to be sure. But I’m grateful now that I can just meet my mom where she is & she where I am. And that I can picture my dad so clearly that last time I saw him alive.
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September 22, 2016 at 2:22 am
Thank you for honestly expressing your thoughts and emotions. Go head girl. This was beautiful. Yes I read the whole thing too. Love you
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September 22, 2016 at 11:48 am
The whole thing? You’re turning in to quite a reader. I love you
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September 22, 2016 at 5:10 am
I love the way you touch my heart. I admire your strength and honesty.
I now know that my own experience was so different from this and in a way I am so grateful for that.
I look forward to your further publishings.
I love you.
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September 22, 2016 at 11:47 am
Thank you for saying so Bob. This is exactly why I want to write. I love you too friend
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September 22, 2016 at 12:54 pm
What beautiful words……Ronnie WOULD be PROUD! This offering, was eloquent and made me cry! no offense, I’m not sure if it was your words or the thought of my own mother. I think if I had to pinpoint why I cried, it would be because I’m jealous of you. Jealous as in, it was quick with your dad my mom has cancer now Susan and watching her die slowly I envy the finality the quickness.
Either way, it provoked feeling, deep feeling. and as myself, & everybody else who reads this, I will be in line to buy your first published novel. much love
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September 24, 2016 at 6:59 pm
As for being an outstanding daughter, some families are close, some less so. I know people still living with their parents very happily, others who could not wait to get away. I wondered at how little I grieved: it is of a piece with other parts of family relationship, and not a sign of incapacity for deep feeling. Yay you for not self-denigrating, even if you have to keep noticing and practising that.
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September 25, 2016 at 9:25 am
I have nothing profound to say, except that how in the world can two strangers have such similar ways with family? I thought it was just me… thanks for sharing.
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September 26, 2016 at 8:26 pm
A inspiring writing to fit my need for this morning. Memories, how wonderful they. God has gifted you Susan. Keep using them for His glory. You might never know in full the amazing woman God made you, happy to call you sister. Love you to life.
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