When I wrote the last
blog post, I did not know that the next entry I’d be writing would talk about
how much and in what ways I’ve been grieving the loss of my father. I didn’t
know that the time between that blog entry and his death would be measured by a
mere two days. Two days. I thought we had more time. Isn’t that always the
heart of regret: how little quality time we have, and what we end up doing with
it?
Every morning I open
up my journal to write. I use a laminated copy of Dad’s obituary as a bookmark.
The funeral home gave us a few of them after the service. I’ve scanned it so I
can make more bookmarks when this one becomes too worn at the edges.
Next week, I’ll be
returning to Mifflintown for the first time since Mom started her new life
without Dad. My sister and I are trying to sell the house and the land, cull
her and Dad’s belongings, help her move closer to my sister, who will be able
to take care of her. I’ll do as much as I can, and then I’ll try to do even
more because the pain and guilt I have from living so far away needs to be
relieved somehow, even if for only a couple of weeks. But I remind myself that
I have my own children to take care of, and that’s what Dad would have wanted
me to do before anything else.
My children are the
reason I’m having my ovaries removed next month. Being a BRCA-2 gene carrier, I
have a much higher risk of developing ovarian cancer, and there aren’t reliable
screening methods for it. This surgery is just the latest, and it’s also the
least of which I’ve been concerned. If there’s a chance to be given more time,
I’m taking it. The absence of my ovaries I will not regret.
There is so much I
regret about Dad’s passing—why didn’t I make him get those tests and scans done
earlier? Why did I let him go home from the hospital after the first time he
went in? Why didn’t I take him back to the hospital sooner? Why did I make the
decision to start the morphine when the doctor took me alone into the oversized
sterilized conference room to tell me that Dad was actively dying, his kidneys
and liver failing, his lungs full of blood clots, his ribs almost completely
broken from the cancer eating at them? I know. I had to. I didn’t want to
regret making him suffer.
Now, I don’t want to
regret anymore. No more wasting time. Time to go home, say goodbye to that
home, and help Mom create her new normal. I want to do all the things I know
Dad would have regretted not getting to do, like seeing Chloe, Mylo,
and Moxie grow up, laughing as much as possible, and helping Mom find the
always elusive happiness, still.
I think of Dad,
myself, my friends, and I think, “it’s never just a cancer story.” It’s a story
about where the time goes and where it takes us along with it.
