Nine years ago today, my father died. What
are you supposed to do on the anniversary of your father’s death?
The thing that I will do is remember. I will
remember and I will write down those memories so that my daughter, and her
daughters, and every future generation know my story. My love. My relationship,
with my dad.
My dad was not easy to love most of the time. He
was stubborn. Angry. Deceptive. Manipulative. I loved him, however. He was my
daddy, and I was his little girl. His Sarah Anne. His Pumpkin Head. I was his
little girl, and he was my daddy.
My first memory of my dad, was teaching my Sunday
school class. He taught me the books of the Bible. He also taught me Psalms 1.
This chapter of the Bible had comforted him while he was in Vietnam. I still know
it to this day. When I was 3, I would climb on his belly and bounce on him
while reciting the books of the Bible and Psalms 1, while the poor man
tried to breathe.
At some point in my childhood, my family (Mom,
Dad, Mel and me) played softball in the front yard. It only happened once, but
I loved every minute of it. We used old margarine containers for bases and a
mush ball. What a time!
Dad used to mow the yard once a week, and I was
always invited to sit on his lap or ride in the wagon as he went. I even got to
steer! I thought I was big stuff, or at least I thought I was.
In September of 1981, my dad bought me an
ancient pony. She lived a grand total of 3 days, but by then, I was
hooked. From that day on, we had ponies and horses in our lives, until the end
of his.
Dad spent
weekends doing pony rides all day long, then hauling me to the local horse
shows and rodeos so that I could compete on my favorite horses, Ty and Dazzler.
He would work all summer long and still help me with my rodeo schedule and fair
time. Dad was my biggest fan at every horse show. I could hear him yelling for
me, no matter where I was in the show arena.
October of 1991, I got my driver's permit. He
made me drive home. The 1982 Chevy 4x4 dually, with a 454 engine and a manual
transmission, eventually became known as "The Beast" to me, and I
loved it. However, that day. The first day, I was petrified. I
thought my dad was nuts, but he patiently, and courageously taught me the ins
and outs of highway driving. (I had been driving around the farm since I was
9.)
Dad hauled me to every 4-H and FFA meeting that I
had. He encouraged me to go to college. Once I left second grade, he could no
longer help me with my homework, but I knew he was proud of me. I loved him for
that.
When dad got sick and had to live at the
Veteran's Home in Lafayette, I would visit twice a week. I would take him to a
store, and he would want to wander without me, leaving me behind as his
motorized wheelchair took off. I would follow the noises of displays being knocked
over, picking up as I went. When he could no longer locate me, he would
start to yell, "PUMPKIN HEAD!!!!!" over and over at the top of his
voice, trying to get my attention. I would run in the complete opposite
direction.
Life went on with dad, having wheelchair races up
and down his hallway, eating meals in his cafeteria, singing solos at his
chapel on Sundays. Life went on, until it didn’t anymore.
I got the first call from his doctors on a sunny
spring morning. Dad was failing fast and they needed to reconfirm the "do
not resuscitate" orders on his chart. I was called in from my classroom to
talk to the doctor. There I stood, in the school's office, telling the doctor
that yes, if my dad dies, let him die. Yes, this is what he wants. Yes, I am
sure. Yes, I will be okay.
The second call was to tell me to come soon, he
was asking for me. JP and I walked into his room and he awoke. I greeted him
and he squeezed my hand asking me to sing hymns to him. So I did.
I sang hymn after hymn, after hymn. I sang all of
his favorites...What A Friend We Have In Jesus. When The Roll Is Called Up
Yonder. In The Garden. Holy, Holy, Holy. I Surrender All. Trust And Obey. Until
I could remember no more.
I then sat and held his hand. Dad was tired and I
knew we had to go. Deep down , I knew this was the last time I would see him. I
hugged him and kissed him and told him I loved him. He squeezed my hand and
said, "I love you too, Pumpkin Head." I walked out of his room, down
the hallway, got on the elevator. As the elevator doors shut, I knew that the
doors of my childhood had shut as well.
My dad was failing very quickly on a day that
happened to be my mom’s birthday. As mom sat there with him, she leaned over
and whispered, “Mel, please don’t die on my birthday. Please do not do that to
me.” He asked a nurse to let him know when it was midnight. He requested he be
told, even if she didn’t think he could hear her. At midnight, the nurse leaned
over and told him the time. Twenty minutes later, my Dad went to meet Jesus. His
final gift to my mom was holding on until May 28 to let go of this world.
My dad had asked me to give the eulogy at his
funeral. It was so much harder than I thought it would be. I have yet to work
through some of the emotions that I have in regards to my dad dying. A few
years ago, I even dialed his old number to tell him something. How do you
forget that your dad has been dead for 9 years? I guess you can. I guess I did.
I miss you, Dad. I miss your corny jokes, your
teasing ways, and your love for me. I only wish that you could have lived long
enough to know Little Bug. People say she is just like I was when I was her
age. I am pretty sure you would have gotten along like peas in a pod.
~Annie
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