Privileged, Peaceful, and Loved

That my heart is aching there can be no doubt. Yet still I am able to see the the many hidden messages in what seems like a long life in a child's eye, and an all too short one in a son's. I am now embroiled in the final chapter of my father's last days. It is as surreal as it is real. No one ever really prepares any of us for this moment. Still, as I sit here in his hospice room I'm grateful for several things:

1. Having had a father for all of my youth and well into adulthood. Something many of my friends, cousins, and countless others never had.

2. I'm grateful I at least have the chance to actually say goodbye, hold his hand, caress his brow. Again, something many people never get to do when death either comes as a shock or too early in their loved one's life.

3. I'm grateful for having had the ability, the opportunity, and words to say what I always wanted to say while I could, either in writing or as in the recent months before my father's current bout of illness-- to his face.

4. I'm grateful too for having had this time in hospice, as painful as it might be so that I can really feel, appreciate, and drink in all that it was that my father meant to me as a man, a parent, and as a friend.

In considering to write or not to write one asks whether or not what you're feeling is either too personal, or worse still, too maudlin. This experience as I sit here in this room, and indeed this whole floor- where death is all around me and slowly creeping up on so many souls is an extremely rich and valuable one. If nothing else it gives me a greater appreciation of the greater good than evil in the world despite what you read daily to the contrary. I am surrounded by people who have chosen to be among the dying; as I get to know them, almost all of them use the word "privilege" when describing their work.

Yes it is hard to be here. Yes it is extremely sad to lose my dad. However, given a choice there's no other place I would choose to be at this time. This is in many ways the perfect convergence of being in the right place, at the right time, for the right reason. I can only benefit either in wisdom or compassion from this experience--most likely both. Still my overall opinion of this experience is one of gratitude and blessings. I cannot complain that I feel as though my dad was taken too early, yet rather I celebrate that I at least had this long, fully aware of the many people who never got what I had. As I've observed this process I've noticed how each of my four brothers has adjusted to this phase as well; each has done what they can in their own way. We've all brought different skills, personalities and sorrows to this, the final days of my father's life. Each one reconciling and processing the experience in their own way, and as painful and sad as it all is I'm also aware that we are still each other's greatest strength though I often lost sight of this fact throughout this ordeal.

PinF has certainly been throught the ringer this year, most if not all has been covered in one form or fashion through this blog, which got me to thinking as I sit in this room; how many blogs did I write regarding my father's situation since July? I don't know myself. Next step? You guessed it, I've culled all of the archives of PinF for any relevant posts that chronicle this most incredible journey, one that has finally brought me to South Philly were I now sit camped out in a room here at St. Agnes. Many readers of PinF may not know what the hell I'm on about, so I thought it a fitting tribute that I chronologically re-post as a sort of tribute to the man I call "dad" and more importantly one who I also call my friend-- Bill Paynter.


Could it all have started this long ago in July? Not long after arriving I made this observation. On the road home I was able to put my dread and fear in proper order based on a conversation with a stranger. Not but a few months later I was again called back home after the unfortunate auto accident that placed my father in his current predicament. Upon my arrival I was left with little to do other than be by his bedside and ponder the next step, essentially reduced to holding his hand. Before leaving I was able to see some music, something always good for the soul so I posted this observation. Seasons passed as did holidays, when Thanksgiving came around I made this observation. As time passed during his illness more events occurred that had me wishing he was healthy. Specifically the Johnny Cash movie had come out, we had spoken months before how much we were looking forward to this, sadly he was not to see it. I commented on such after my brother recommended seeing my dad's favorite performer being portrayed in the movie Walk the Line. The seasons continued to march forward, Christmas came further highlighting what a dire situation my father's condition had become, still we continued to pray for a turn around. For the first time in my life "my" family wasn't whole, I commented on the season and what it meant to both Sophia and me, ever cognizant of the void left by my father's illness. Not too long after the holidays along came a real reminder of my father as the movie portraying his idol won the Golden Globe bittersweet to be sure, because this would have made him immensely happy. With a continued eye on affairs to the north I felt the increasing pressure to begin to explore futher options, albeit begrudgingly. Not quite a month ago while still very preoccupied with my father's condition I was reading the Inquirier online and came accross one of those "gut check" stories that puts your own pain and trouble into perspective, and as usual it had to involve music---go figure. Certainly I have received all sorts of support either in person, by phone, or email. Much of this support has come from friends who have traveled this road before me, as such they are capable of knowing the many emotions such a challenge presents. Their support and wisdom inspired this post. Of course I'm in the "here and now" now, as such just before leaving I had to once again tell Sophia I was leaving, the difference this time? I had to broach for the first time in her young life, the subject of dying. It wasn't easy as she could sense my pain and I too could feel her's; still dying is something as natural as being born and an important lesson to learn no matter how painful.