Chapter 8: A Broken Man

If you are just joining this blog, you might want to start at the preface and work your way up or you might be lost. 


Have you ever seen someone die? I have. Twice.

I'm still lying in bed with memories running through me.  There has to be a clue. There has to be something that will help us find my dad. That's how it works in the movies right? You remember this awesome clue that sparks a series of other memories and voila mystery solved. So I sift through the memories...

Yes folks ANOTHER flashback (but I promise you these ones are some biggies you need to know)

My dad was holding his hand with tears silently dripping down his face. We all stood there just waiting. Waiting for the doctor to come in and disconnect the equipment. Waiting to let my uncle's body go.

He was my favorite uncle. He was the type of guy that got along with everyone- one of those guys that walk into a room and end up best friends with everyone. He was the type of guy that just made you feel like no matter what was going on, you just needed to smile and it would all get better. I mean God gave you that mouth right? Might as well smile with it. He gave the best bear hugs in all the world and had a laugh that would make even the stuffiest of people crack a smile. He was a big guy at 6' 3" and 200 plus pounds, but lying there with tubes in his mouth he seemed frail and small. Somehow, he seemed  broken, like something was missing. Something was just not there and it wasn't the tubes or hospital bed or the coma. Its something you can only feel. Its like that moment when your air conditioner turns off and you didn't realize that it was making noise until it stopped. He was empty, but  his chest still rose and fell and he was still warm.

The doctor came in. He was somber. He was quiet. He turned the sound to the monitor off first, but left the green and red lines there for us to see. They were still jumping at the intervals we were used to. He disconnected another machine. Then he removed the tube from his mouth. Everything was silent, except for the small movements of our bodies readjusting. We waited as the minutes passed in silence. He said it could take up to 30 minutes, so we just waited and watched. There were no sobs or hysterics. I think we were all out of tears. As a collective whole, we'd probably have filled a block of swimming pools in the last two days. Time passed...slowly. We watched. We waited. We touched his hair, his hands, his face. We loved him one last time. We looked at him one last time. We whispered sweet words to him one last time. We felt his warm skin one last time.  The doctor turned the monitor off and said quietly, "he's gone."

My favorite uncle was gone. But what I didn't know and wouldn't understand right then, was that he took more than I would ever know.  He took my dad's best friend and confidant. He protected my dad from so much as a kid, and in his death he would take Dad's idea of safety and comfort. In his death he took a piece of my dad- a very big very important piece. That piece that keeps you normal- the part that glues you to reality.

Five years later, I would find myself with my father and the same group of people from my Uncle's passing standing around my grandmother. The same tubes, the same white linens, the same blinking monitor. The same fate staring at us in the face again.

We held Mamie's hand and talked to her. She got to see Noah for the first time...and I think she smiled. At least with her eyes she did. But the simple truth was this: she wouldn't survive. She made us promise she wouldn't remain attached to tubes, so with that and her sporadic and less frequent lucidity, we decided to let her go just as we had decided for Uncle Bill.

"Do you want to be in the room this time?" Dad asked me.

"Of course I do. I want to be there for her until the end." I replied. This would soon be a decision I would regret for a lifetime.

The same procedures were followed. The doctor had the same green scrubs and same somber face as last time. The monitor sounds went first, and then the tubes in her mouth were being slowly removed. It all seemed really familiar and manageable...until the doctor said, "She might make noises."

What!? What the hell does that mean? Before I can even formulate a question, Mamie's eyes flew open. She gasped for air. She clung to my dad's hand and tried to suck in air. She gasped and gasped. She made the most God awful noises I've ever heard a human utter. She looked around the room frantically with panic and horror in her eyes. Gasp after gag after gasp came out of her mouth. Her body was tense and full of fear.

"Momma. Its okay, Momma. Just let go Momma," my dad tells her as he begins to cry...and the rest of us begin to sob.

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Its okay Mommy. Just let go Momma. Just let go. Go with the Lord Momma. Just let go," my dad cries to her as he strokes her thin white hair and holds her other hand over his heart.

The sobs get worse, and turn into hysterics. Where is all that noise coming from? For the love of God who is being so hysterical? My dad turns around to give me gentle "It will be okay" eyes, and I realize its me that is doing that crazy cry-kinda-sorta-laugh sounding thing that you see only with real greif . It was me that's having the hysterics! I lost it watching her go. Its one thing to watch your grandmother pass, but its a whole other thing to watch her cling to life as her grown son sobs over her body crying "Mommy, Momma. Mommy". It was all just too much. Too much to witness. Too much to endure. To much honesty and pain. It was too raw and too real. It was real life, real death. It wasn't pretty or peaceful or quiet. It was awful and shocking.

Watching my dad call his dying mother "Mommy" made me realize every person needs their mommy. Your mom is your refuge, your warmth, your love, your connection to the world and everything. In this awful, hysterical, loud, drowning departure, my dad lost what little was left of his idea of family, home, and safety. It was gone in those deep prolonged gasps for life. That last piece of the man and father I knew was taken. It would take me a while to realize this. It would take me until his disappearance and "downfall" to understand that this event marked the beginning of his life as a lost soul and a severely broken man. He wasn't Dad anymore- he was something less, something not whole. He was a shell with anger, loss, and pain clinging to his soul like a parasite hemorrhaging every last drop of humanity.

Its now 5:00AM, and I'm lying awake in bed with tears streaming down my face as theses memories wash through my brain.

My husband rolls over and gets a quick glance at me.

"Babe, what's wrong?"

"I think its time to call the cops. I think its time to file a missing person's report."

"You sure? Its only been a few days."

"Yeah. Somethings wrong. I can feel it. I need to call my Mom."

"Okay. I'll get the phone."

By the way, enjoy this chapter because it will be the last time you feel bad for my dad. What he is about to do to his family is unforgivable...even for a broken man.