Remembering my dad

Today is the last day of February. Time seems to be flying by these days. I've been in a weird rut. Things haven't gotten worse, but they haven't gotten better. I was hoping to be doing much better - I think I mean happier - by now and it hasn't happened. Yet. I know it will. Life is a roller coaster ride and occasionally there are smooth spots where not much is happening. I'm okay with that.

Monday will be my Dad's Birthday. He passed away two years ago. I can't believe it's already been two years! He passed away on the 11th of March, 9 days after his birthday. It's strange to celebrate his Birth and Death so close within the same time frame. For those who don't know, he passed away from Kidney cancer. He had just turned 60. It's been on my mind a lot, so I wanted to talk (blog) about it.

Christmas 2005 will go down as one of my worst Christmases, ever! Two days before Christmas, my dad called Mishka and I to come over to his house (Rebecca was living in San Antonio at the time). We knew he had been going to the doctor, but it was for being slightly anemic. Still, the invitation to come over was fraught with foreboding. He proceeded to tell us that he was not, in fact, anemic. He had been loosing blood because it was feeding the cancer of his Kidney. The doctor, effectually, said, "Enjoy this Christmas, because it will be your last." They gave him about 6 months to a year, but no one really knew for sure. Renal Carcinoma wasn't as common as other types of cancer. They removed the mass, which was about 15-20 pounds and about the shape of a football. It had spread to his lungs and liver. They were able to remove the peices of his liver that were affected, but knew they could not do anything about the lungs. Chemotherapy would be his only hope for that. He went in for treatments, which made him very ill, but he recovered well. Christmas 2006 was a landmark; he was still around and in reasonably good health. He was accomplishing much of what was important to him. At some point, though, it wasn't enough. I recall February 2007 being the start of a decline for him. We felt hopeful, though, that this was just a phase. Turns out, it wasn't. He went into the Hospital again.

He and I had a couple of heart to hearts. We had already done a considerable amount of talking and mending over the last year, but these last few conversations were different. He once confided in me that he wasn't afraid of death in the least. What really scared him, was meeting the Savior. He didn't feel ready for that. That was a total surprise to me. As difficult as it was to watch him suffer through his illness and treatments, it was almost more dfficult to see him this way. Almost as a child. I tried to console him; I told him that of all the people I knew, I didn't doubt that he was one of the most "ready" people and that I didn't think he had anything to be afraid of. I'll never forget what he said because I think I knew intimately what he felt. I know that if I were to die today, that is the one fear I would have too... meeting the Savior. I know my dad had some hard things in his past, but I guess the illusion of a parent is that they have been through everything and are prepared for everything. They are the strong and wise ones, because they have been through it all. He was the one I turned to first when I needed something. It was hard to know that at that moment, there was nothing I could do. His life was about to be presented to his Father in Heaven and he felt trepidation at that meeting. Maybe it was not so much fear that he felt, as it was doubt. "Did I do enough? Was I enough?" Those are very personal questions and I was both honored and incredibly humbled that he would share such a personal thing with me.

We had another conversation a few weeks later. Much more difficult for me. I almost couldn't bring myself to say it, but I knew I had to. While it was in my mind, it was debatable, or even dismissable; but once I said it out loud, it would be out there and I couldn't change it. I told him that as much as I loved him, as much as I wanted him to be healed and have him around for a hundred years, that I was ready to let him go and I didn't want him to hold on for me or anyone. I wanted him to be happy; I wanted him to be at peace - even if it meant that death was the only way for him to acheive it. We both cried, but he thanked me. And at that moment, I did let him go. In my own heart I left it in the Lord's hands and knew He would do what He thought best. And whatever that might be, I knew that it really would be the best thing.

The separation is harder at times, than others. Of course there are the big regrets; he won't be around when I get married, or have kids, etc. But what I was really not prepared for was the fact that when someone you love dies, you don't just lose them once. You lose them over and over. You lose them at their bedside when they drift away. You lose them again at their funeral. When you sort through their belongings, you lose them again. Everytime you come home to an empty house, you lose them again. Everytime you have a desire to tell them something good (or bad) that's happened, and they are not there to tell, you lose them again. Everytime you hold a fork and remember their annoying habit of breathing and chewing at the same time(!), you lose them again. It's all the little things, added up, that you miss the most.

And yet, there is hope. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is the only thing I know of that can bring hope to such a dismal event. I wrote a poem for my dad's funeral that I'll copy below. It's a poem about the hope I experienced during my father's illness, and the hope I have now for when we will meet again.



Gratitude

We had time to talk,
to listen,
to understand,

We had time to laugh,
to wonder,
to explore,

We had time to reach out,
to heal,
to mend,

We had time to ponder,
to remember,
to learn,

We had time to live,

We had time to love,

and, in time...
We will have eternity.


Micah James Foster
For Robert Dennis Foster
Mar. 2, 1947 – Mar. 11, 2007