Don’t Know Why They Care
When I went into the hospital after a heart attack a few weeks ago, I didn’t think there was a chance of my getting out of there alive. The doctor told me later that he didn’t have too much hope, either.
I recovered to an extent. However, I recover a little and go back a little, recover a little and go back a little. It seems like every time I get something cured, something else goes wrong. Essentially, I know I’m a dying man. Even so, this last couple of months has been the happiest, most beautiful time of my life. I’ve been a poor father as such. I drank a lot and smoked a lot, and didn’t pay as much attention to my kids as I should have. But when I told them I figured I was going to die, we got together and found out how much we loved each other as people.
I have lived alone for the past 20 years, and I was getting sicker as I went. I didn’t know I had diabetes as bad as I did, and my emphysema has advanced rapidly. I really noticed that I was in trouble six or seven years ago. It had snowed and it was kind of slushy, and I had to cross the road to get my mail. Once I got over there, I could hardly get back. I’ve had a lot of trouble. If my mind couldn’t take me out of my problems and give me a sense of humor about things, I would have been dead a long time ago.
My doctor once told me, “Bill, with the things you have wrong with you, 70 percent of the people, if they had it, they’d be dead. But here you are, still going along the road in your world.”
Nevertheless, I am deteriorating rapidly. For the past month it’s been practically impossible to do ordinary things like get the mail. I don’t want a painful death - I’ve had enough pain - but for someone who worries about dying, it isn’t a fearsome thing. It’s passing into a warm place to go to sleep.
My children believe in a hereafter, and I don’t. But we’ve resolved that. They might want me to believe, but it’s too far-fetched for me. I wanted them to cremate me and throw my ashes in the ocean or Columbia and forget it. But my daughter won’t have that. She’s got a place she wants to bury me and make a family cemetery.
It was when my kids found out I am dying that we discovered a beautiful, warm, caring relationship that is nearly impossible to express. I felt they had every right not to be concerned with me whatsoever, but they came together and told me, “Dad, we love you.”
They like me. I can’t figure it out.
MEMO: Your Turn is a feature of the Wednesday and Saturday Opinion pages. To submit a Your Turn column for consideration, contact Rebecca Nappi at 459-5496 or Doug Floyd at 459-5466 or write Your Turn, The Spokesman-Review, P.O. Box 2160, Spokane, WA 99210-1615.