Just Can't Talk About It Yet

So much has happened since I wrote my last blogpost.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

The emotions are too near the surface to write about the sweet farewell with my father.

I should record the poignant midnight visit in the ICU when my father found an untapped reservoir of strength that enabled him to sit up in a wheelchair for a meaningful stroll through the quiet corridors; that enabled him to express what was in his heart, though the words were difficult to get out; which also enabled me to tell him the things that were in my heart.

But I can't talk about it yet.

I should write about the following day when this last rush of adrenalin led us to think that Dad had hope for recovery, leading us to tour endless care centers, walking miles of hallways filled with sadness, searching to find a place where Dad wouldn't be too miserable.

I should write about the rally when Dad met the administrator of the care center which we had decided upon.  I should write about the sparkle in his eyes as they talked about their common love of football which even led them to comparing their still impressive calf muscles.

But I can't talk about it yet.

Because the following day, when the adrenalin had fled, my poor sweet father could only speak with his eyes as he gratefully welcomed the ice chips that I spooned into his parched lips.

I can't talk about the ride to the airport, thinking, wondering, praying, hoping that he would hold on for a few more days when I would be able to come back, feeling like I was abandoning him.

I can't talk about the scene I created at the airport gate when, just before I was supposed to board, I got a phone call that he had become unresponsive and all the indicators had severely dropped and my hope of seeing him alive again shattered.



I should talk about the beautiful funeral.

I should talk about the lovely music which filled our hearts with the hope of the Resurrection.

I should talk about the sweet reunion with dear friends and cousins and aunts and uncles who had come to honor this great man, who had blessed all of our lives with his wisdom and his strength and his unfailing support and love.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

On Belay

When I was a kid I learned how to climb.

My natural instinct seemed to be to climb any tree that passed my simple analysis as a tree-climbing tree.  It was liberating to me. When the trees were mastered, I would find ways to climb onto the roof of my home.  I loved the challenge and especially the enhanced view of my little world.

But the best things to climb were mountains and my dad was an expert.

What began with simple climbs of large boulders and learning how to look for holds, soon graduated to larger challenges with ropes and pitons. I still pride myself on knowing what a caribiner was long before they became ubiquitous.

As any climber knows, the cherry on the top of a good climb is the chance to rapel down, a sort of harnessed backwards dancing which eventually brings the climber to the safety of the ground.

The key element to successful rappelling is the skill of the belayer.

A belayer is the climber's partner, who typically applies the friction at the other end of the rope whenever the climber is not moving, removing the friction whenever the climber needs more rope in order to be able to continue climbing or descending as the case may be. A belayer is the safety net between success and failure. I could not fall because my dad was literally my anchor.

I was always very secure in knowing that my dad was my belayer.  He was the strongest man in the world and I knew that in his hands I was safe.  No doubts. Ever. He was a mountain himself.

My belay has become unsteady.

My rock is crumbling. My security is jeopardized.

My father is ready to pass on.



I'm not ready to be off belay.