I’m So Sorry to Tell You…

One Year Later…

Smythe laid restless in her bed, noting the date. February 15^th. It had been a night of constant tossing and turning. She peered toward the window at the far end of her room. Where is that light coming from?! Disgusted with her lack of sleep, Smythe turned her back to the window. She reached for her glasses on the side table before glancing at her alarm clock. She sighed, pulling the sheet over her head and closing her eyes. It was then she remembered the light which streamed through the edges of her curtain came from the porch lamp, which remained on all night.

She thought that perhaps she was uneasy because she had resigned from her position at work the day before. No, she sighed, it had been months in the making. Still. Whatever the reason for her restlessness, Smythe found herself mentally reviewing pieces of her life. Picking at it, really.

She thought about her name. She could not recall why her parents named her Smythe Windwalker Daniels. It was a name people either mispronounced or made fun of. It was Smythe, like Smith, not Smythe with a long “y” or Smithee. Her father said he named her. He heard the name meant to smite something, or another word for soldier. Her middle name was even more of an issue. Given to her by her mother, Clara, of Navajo lineage, she said Smythe was conceived in the back of an old pickup during a windstorm in the fields of an Illinois farm. Her mother eventually married Smythe’s father, Drake, an African American Army officer. Considered late in comparison to the rest of their generation, Clara and Drake didn’t marry until their early thirties. Together they raised Smythe and her two sisters, each born a little over a year and a half apart.

Smythe tossed to the other side of the bed. “Perhaps it really is just the uncertainty of my future,” she mumbled. After a few more minutes of wandering down memory lane, complete with enough sighing to keep anyone awake, she rose to the stillness of the morning. She fumbled to turn on the lamp on her nightstand and sat up against her headboard. The glow of the lamp bathed her in soft strands of golden light, and there, she quietly sat, wondering what the day ahead would bring. Gazing around her bedroom, Smythe realized she had nowhere to go. Desperate for a cigarette, she quickly dressed and made coffee before heading out her apartment door. As though for the first time, she noticed that her apartment faced north, and it caused her to pause.

She remembered reading that north was the symbol of culmination and fulfillment, infused with clarity of mind.

It’s the liminal space that offers us the ability to release the lessons we have learned into our conscious moments. It’s supposed to represent wisdom and insight, allowing for a deepening of our contemplative moments.

Smythe stood on the threshold of her front door, scrunching her nose. She wondered what she knew for sure anymore. Everything seemed so new.

She entered her car, pressed her SUV’s ignition button, and took note of the time—3:00 a.m. Turning on the heater, she sat, calculating how long she would give herself that morning.

Three hours should be enough. Joao will have to wait.

With a cold front sweeping in from the north the night before, threatening to freeze everything in its path, the morning hours offered a bitter cold, engulfing the valley in frost yet again. She sat back and watched small ice particles melt atop the hood of the car while she waited for it to warm up.

Slowly backing out of her parking stall, she rolled her window down, staring at the darkened windows of her neighbors. Bed is where I should be. She smirked, lit a cigarette, and took a sip of coffee before making her way out of the complex.

Just breathe, it’ll be ok.

She drove to a small strip mall, a mere two blocks away, positioning her car east to watch the sun rise above the mountain range. Knowing the early morning hour was no place for a woman alone in the middle of a parking lot, she hid along the side of a large department store, away from the street lamps.

After idling her vehicle and smoking a couple cigarettes with a few sips of coffee in between, she turned off her engine. Feeling the morning’s cold February air, Smythe gathered her jacket collar around her neck. She sighed and sat in weariness. So much had shifted in her life. Her eyes darted around the parking lot. It was empty, save a car at the far end. She felt the heaviness of the air around her, and she listened. The only sound was the reverent silence an early morning could offer. And here, in the solitude of the morning, Smythe sat waiting.

Her old nemesis began to surface, and it called her crazy. She brushed it aside as old news and dreamt of the many possibilities of a new future. A frown formed across her brow as her mind wandered to the last three weeks. She could feel the weight of grief threatening to take over.

These last few weeks should have been filled with joy.

She stared out the window, taking in a breath. Her inward vision tunneled as she recalled the recent dark days.

Just four weeks before her resignation, Smythe found herself sitting in an emergency room next to her mother, Clara. Smythe’s father had become gravely ill. Diagnosed several years ago with a degenerative brain disorder, he barely recognized Smythe and often hallucinated. His gait was slow, shuffled, and stiff, requiring the constant use of a walker. He could no longer swallow food without violent fits of coughing. As if the physical deterioration wasn’t enough, her mother suffered under his obstinate behavior. Refusing to follow directions for even the smallest of tasks, he yelled and berated her. At one point, he threatened her with his cane, causing her mother to call Smythe to come to her rescue.

One day, while sitting in a meeting at work, her mother called to say that her father was unresponsive after attempting to wake him that morning. Clara called the paramedics, and after a brief examination, they rushed him to the hospital. Smythe arrived at the emergency room and found her mother sitting alone in his room where her father’s bed should have been. Upon her face lay a trail of dried tears. She began to weep of exhaustion once again as her daughter approached.

“Oh Smythe, he’s had a stroke, and they are unsure he will survive it,” she blurted out.

Smythe’s skin paled, her eyes widened, and she willed her tears to cease their march down her cheeks. She lifted her chin and looked around the room.

“Where is he?”

“They’ve taken him for tests. They want to see how bad it is.”

Smythe moved an empty chair to sit next to her mother. They both winced at the sudden, loud, scraping sound. Holding her mother’s hand, Smythe listened as her mother recited yet another chapter of her father’s long goodbye. At the end of her story, she weakly asked Smythe to call “the girls.”

“I will, but only after we get results about the tests.” Her mother nodded in agreement.

When it came to bad news, Smythe was often the unwilling conduit of information to the family. She was the one who called her siblings when her grandmother died, the one who called when their aunt passed away, the one who called when their father had a heart attack, and the one who called with the neurological diagnosis of their father. Now, she was tasked to deliver even more devastating news.

A short time later, her father was wheeled into the room. Placing an oxygen tank behind his bed, the nurse dimmed the lights low. The ER doctor strode into the room a short time later and introduced herself to Smythe before solemnly asking for a meeting outside.

They followed behind the doctor into an adjoining waiting room, which provided sensory relief from the noise of monitoring equipment and chatter in the hallway. Smythe’s mother huddled next to her.

“He will not recover, I’m afraid,” the doctor quietly stated. “The damage is too extensive.” She explained the various tests performed, the reason for the tests, and their results. Smythe pursed her lips together. She felt her mind wander but compelled herself to focus on the information the doctor conveyed.

And then the question.

“What do you want to do?” the doctor asked. Smythe closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she turned to her mother. She watched as tears streamed down her mother’s cheeks, her face beginning to become ashen. She took her mother’s hand into her own and looked deep into her eyes.

“I can’t make the decision, Smythe.”

“He would not want this, Mom.”

“I know. I just can’t say the words. I need you to say them for me,” she whispered.

Smythe stood in silence. She imagined her mother and the 50 years of marriage she shared with her husband. Smythe imagined that perhaps by not saying the words, her mother was delaying the decision, if only for another moment. But someone had to speak.

To make the most compassionate decision she could on her father’s behalf, Smythe looked over to the doctor, her voice steady and strong. “He wouldn’t want this existence and would be furious if we kept him alive like this. We need to let him go.”

The doctor nodded her head. She went on to explain what they would and would not medically do on his behalf, which would include removing all nutritional supplements.

“We will continue his pain and anxiety medications and monitor his blood oxygen levels but will take away his oxygen.”

Smythe nodded and looked toward her mother. Taking her hand, together, they returned to her father’s bedside. After a few minutes, she left her mother at her father’s bedside and returned to the waiting room to call her sisters.

Her first call was to Nellis, her younger sister. Smythe was particularly fond of her, if only because she, too, had an unusual first name. Smythe found her sister easy to talk to regarding all manner of subjects—and while they did not speak often, a bond had developed between them. Nellis looked up to Smythe, admiring her intelligence and her quiet, “I’m following my own path” attitude. Nellis, who lived in the Chicago area, was also grateful to Smythe for choosing to move close to their parents after being furloughed, and often expressed her relief at Smythe’s presence.

“Hello.”

Clearing her throat, Smythe stood surprised at the sudden emotion welling up in her voice. “Nellis, hi, it’s Smythe. I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news to share.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Dad. He’s had a massive stroke. Nellis… he won’t survive it.”

Smythe closed her eyes, willing herself the strength to continue the story.

“We’re taking him off of life support. The doctor told us…” Smythe paused, clearing her throat again. “The doctor said it would only be a matter of time…”

“Oh, God, no!” Nellis sobbed. “Please, God, no, please God, no! What happened?”

Smythe, suddenly feeling weary, reached for a chair and sat down. “I don’t have all of the details, but Mom tried to wake him up this morning, and he didn’t wake. She thought he was just being stubborn. You know Mom. But he wasn’t. Based on all of the tests, he would not survive without extraordinary measures.”

“But there’s hope; there’s always hope, Smythe. Don’t let him die—please!”

“Nellis. There’s very little to no brain activity, and this isn’t the way he’d want to live.”

“He’s our father!”

“Exactly! Which is why the most compassionate thing Mom and I could do for him is to let him pass in peace—not tied to a bunch of machines just to keep him with us.”

Smythe listened for a response but could hear only the empty silence of grief. Promising her youngest sister that she would call her with any new changes in their father’s status, Smythe hung up the phone.

Father’s status, Smythe thought. Rather cold and formal way to express his death, but how else could I have said it? “I’ll call to let you know he died”?

Smythe took in a breath. She held her phone in the palm of her hand, thumbing through her contact list. Margaret Kennedy. She hesitated for a moment, wondering which number to dial. Smythe hadn’t spoken to Margaret in years, holding her middle sister personally responsible for Smythe’s social trouble in school.

Margaret had been welcomed into the high school hierarchy of girls, dressed in the latest fashion and crazy about boys. But Smythe was different. She wore jeans and button-down shirts with sneakers, preferred girls over boys, literature rather than television, and solitude over company. Smythe’s quiet demeanor became fodder for Margaret’s clique of girls, and Margaret just stood by and sneered at Smythe, allowing the verbal bullying to take place. Margaret’s only response had been to challenge her older sister to defend herself, but Smythe never did.

Smythe clenched her teeth. She tapped Margaret’s cell number and immediately stood from the chair.

“Smythe, what’s up?” Handing her secretary a file folder, Margaret put the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece and thanked her.

“Sorry about that. What’s going on?”

“I’m calling as the bearer of bad news. Dad suffered a massive stroke and will not survive.”

“Oh, no!”

Repeatedly making a fist and releasing it, Smythe began to pace. “Mom and I have given the doctors permission to remove all life-sustaining efforts. We’re placing him in hospice, where he’ll most likely pass away in the next couple of days.

“Oh my God. How’s Mom? Can I talk to her?”

“Mom is with Dad right now. I would suggest you try reaching her later this evening. Too much noise and activity here—”

“What hospital are you at?”

“University.”

“Good, good.” Taking in a breath, Margaret sat back in her chair, swiveled around toward her office window, and stared out at the New York City skyline. Darting her eyes back and forth, she finally spoke. “Let me call Thomas. He may know some neurologists there. Perhaps consult with them.”

Leave it to you to want to drag your husband into this.

“Didn’t you hear me? His doctors have given him no chance of recovery. The most compassionate thing Mom and I can do is let him go. So, that’s what we’re doing.”

“There’s always a chance—I can’t just accept this.”

“Do you think we can?” Smythe stopped her pacing and took in a breath. “Look, at least he won’t continue to suffer. And he has suffered, Margaret. I’ve already called Nellis; she won’t be able to get here to say goodbye in person. If you can spare the time—”

“I can’t. I leave for Italy tomorrow. I won’t be back until a week from Tuesday. I’ll call Mom later to explain. I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“And yet it has, Margaret. If you want, you can call me, and I can put you on so you can say your goodbyes to him. Or, if Mom is in the room, you can call her.”

“Yes, that’s a great idea. I’ll do my best to clear my schedule and give her a call tonight, then make arrangements to talk to him while she’s there.”

“Sounds good. Listen, I’ve got to get back to Mom. I’ll let you know when I’ve scheduled the memorial service.”

“Yes, that’s good. I’ll clear my calendar once I’m back from this trip. If possible, three weeks from now would be great.”

“Yeah, sure. Gotta go.”

“Ok, bye.”

Ass. Your father is dying, and you can’t spare a day or two to say goodbye!

Smythe stomped through the waiting room, stopping short of her father’s room to compose herself. After a few long breaths, she forced a smile and returned to sit with her mother.

Over the next several hours, all life-sustaining measures were halted. The ER staff made arrangements for a local hospice of Smythe’s choosing to take control of his care. Her mother, sick with grief, returned to her home while Smythe remained behind, waiting to accompany her father to hospice.

It would be close to midnight before transportation services arrived for Smythe’s father. After a short drive outside the city, the caravan, consisting of the transport vehicle and Smythe in her SUV, arrived at their destination.

The hospice center was a small facility, yet considered one of the best in the valley. Smythe entered the complex and felt comforted to see that it did not have the sterile feeling or appearance of a hospital. As though wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold rainy day, she gazed at a lobby that looked more like a quaint bed and breakfast. The lights were dimmed low. Serene landscape paintings hung on the walls around worn but comfy living room-style furniture. A card table sat off in the far corner of the lobby, with a number of well-used board games and magazines scattered atop it.

She was met by her father’s new hospice nurse, Evorah. A plump African American woman in her late 50s with a curly hair weave, she held a tender strength in her movement, a reflective gaze in her eyes, and the gentle spirit of an angel. Her enveloping tenderness allowed Smythe to release any anxiety over concern for her father’s care as he journeyed on the last days of his long goodbye.

Evorah, with an accent that belied her southern upbringing, quietly explained to Smythe she and her team would provide “comfort care” for her father. Not completely understanding the term, Smythe gave Evorah a quizzical look.

Evorah stated, “We’ll not seek to cure that which cannot be cured. Instead, my team will focus our efforts on easing the physical effects of his dying process.” She taught Smythe how they could tell when their unresponsive patient was in pain.

“We’ll watch him closely, learn his facial signals. We all have ‘em when we’re in pain. We look for a slight grimace or restless movement in his body. We watch his blood pressure, too. There’ll be no unnecessary discomfort, I assure you.”

Smythe nodded.

“It’s also not too uncommon that he may feel some level of anxiety. We will administer anxiety medication; no need to suffer that.”

There it is, Smythe thought. The culmination of a life reduced to pain and anxiety medication.

Evorah offered Smythe a tour of the floor while the hospice team tended to her father. She pointed out where Smythe would be required to sign in and out. With Smythe by her side, she strode through the halls, pointing out the restrooms and nurses’ station should Smythe require assistance during her visits.

“And I’ve saved the best for last,” Evorah said, pointing toward the kitchen.

“You’ll want to visit our kitchen periodically. We have the most delicious chocolate chip cookies this side of the Ohi’a river. I couldn’t bake them any better, if I do say so myself. As you can tell, I’ve had my fair share over the years, hence my motherly figure,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. With her hands on her hips, she shimmied her body effortlessly, flaunting her round figure. Smythe could not help but giggle at the sight of this angel.

Smythe spent a few minutes with her father before she said her goodbyes to Evorah and the nurse’s assistant. Evorah nodded and began speaking to her father in a voice that could have soothed a wailing child.

After just two and a half days, Smythe received an early morning call from Evorah. “Smythe, I am sorry to inform you, your father passed away peacefully at 2:05 a.m.”

Smythe sat back against the headboard of her bed. Holding her phone, she stared at the keypad. For several minutes, she sat, numb to the news. It’s time, she told herself. She hesitated before thumbing through her contact list, calling her mother before calling her two siblings.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to have to tell you...” Smythe started, and then listened. She listened as they each poured out their grief-stricken sobs. She bore the brunt of preparing her father’s memorial. Perhaps out of spite for her sister, Margaret, Smythe set the memorial service for two weeks after his death and one week before her resignation.

A week after her father’s memorial service, Smythe walked away from her corporate position. With no fanfare, she had gathered her belongings at the end of the day and strode away from a life she no longer claimed as her own.

Then, quite unexpectedly, it all fell together.