If I asked you to tell me the moment you grew up, could you answer? Like, the moment your life changed forever, when you moved forward from whatever kid innocence you may have had left? The moment where you separated from that other person forever. The old you would now be a memory, and nothing could ever be recaptured or repeated with any sort of honesty. A total reset. That’s what happened to me the night I sat with my brother in a small beige office under fluorescent light, as a doctor slid a DNR form across the desk and asked if we wanted to sign it.
A DNR is a fuck of a document. This is a do-not-resuscitate order, which instructs health care workers not to perform CPR if a patient’s heart stops beating or they lose the ability to breathe on their own. This is also a way for them to inform you there’s nothing more they can do—it’s about compassion, not survival. It’s a way of telling you the fight is over. Coming from a family of fighters, this was bloody hard to sign off on. It felt like a betrayal. My brother and I put our names on it, slid it back across that desk, and walked out carrying all the guilt and shame that comes with giving up on someone you love. In writing.
My dad survived more than anyone should have to, but this was us committing to not fight for him.
When we got to the hospital that night, that last night, he was already too far gone for anything to really matter. He wasn’t conscious and couldn’t talk or respond to anything we said. This was the end. These were the walls he was going to die behind, under shitty fluorescent lights in a room with a window that didn’t open.
When it came to his family, my Pops would have chewed through brick to make sure we were safe, but there we were about to stand there and do nothing. We knew he had to do this alone. All dads, eventually, have to do this part alone. Doing nothing was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. When you sign a DNR, your family story changes, and everyone has to be on board. The story becomes less about motivation, less about the fight, and more about abandonment of all hope. I was still my dad’s cheerleader and his champion, but instead of telling him to get up and walk, to eat something, to think positive and fight, I was leaning in whispering that it was okay to go. Instead of telling him how much I needed him, I was letting him know it was alright to say goodbye.
I sat by his bed and held his hand.
I repeated, “Don’t worry, Pops. You did a good job,” and “We’re all going to be okay,” over and over, hoping these words would make their way in. And I thanked him.
This is when I first truly understood what I was actually losing. It was everything. I was losing everything.
I never thought for a second about what the last words I’d say to my dad would be. This isn’t something you rehearse. Nor should you. All dads die. There’s no other way to say it. That’s not a reminder, or a reality that I get any sort of joy from writing, but it’s the truth. There’s no lesson here and you shouldn’t, for one minute, waste your time wondering how you’d handle it. It’s not something you can or should ever try to prepare for. Don’t put it in your head, and don’t run the scenarios. It won’t help.
When someone you love is dying, people try to relate to you, while still offering whatever support they can. It’s awkward, but sometimes beautiful too. They’ll ask how your loved one is doing, without pressing too hard. They’ll give you space, but still want the updates. They’ll praise your strength, while wondering, out loud, how they themselves would handle it. This happened a lot in those last few days—I heard it all. I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t imagine. I don’t know if I’d be able to go through that.
I know people weren’t being shitty, I know they weren’t making my very-soon-to-be-dead father all about them, but people can’t help it. It’s just what we do. My answer to all of them was the same. Very simple. “Don’t. Don’t spend one second playing that out. Don’t imagine anything. Don’t put yourself in my position. Just call your dad. If you’re pissed off? Call him. If you’re busy? Call him. If you hung out yesterday but miss him today? Call your dad, and if he doesn’t pick up, leave a message and let him know you’re thinking about him.”
I couldn’t remember the last time my dad and I talked, or what we actually said to each other. But I do know that I didn’t say goodbye. At least, not in any way that would have meant anything. And this kills me. Even today. Those last few months, when he was alive, were a gift I left unopened. I didn’t have what it took to walk that road with him. I knew that the next part of me to break was going to be broken forever, so I walked away. I couldn’t tell him how hurt I was. I couldn’t put that on him. I was young and I wasn’t ready for any of it.
I play those last few months out in my head all the time, and how today I would do it all so differently. I would empty my bank account to find him the best care at home. I would find a place in the country with no neighbours and with windows that opened. He deserved to go out with morning sun on his face and wet feet from sitting on a porch in one last rainstorm. I would take one of those hands of his, the ones that could fix anything, and hold it against my chest every night until he fell asleep. I wouldn’t force him to get up and walk, but I would ask him to dance. I would beg him to finish telling all the stories that still had holes and felt incomplete. The ones without endings. The ones I was now going to have to tell for him.
My dad had this Roadrunner belt buckle that he always used to show off when I was a kid. I was fascinated with it. It wasn’t anything fancy, didn’t look like it cost more than a couple bucks, but I knew it meant something to him. I don’t remember a lot of stuff actually meaning much to my dad, but this did. I hadn’t thought about that belt buckle in over twenty years, but for some reason, as he was lying there dying, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I wondered what happened to it. Where it went. I used to think it was the coolest thing, and I remember asking to borrow it one time for a costume I was putting together for school. He told me no for the first time in my life. The story behind it meant more than the buckle itself, but that little piece of tin with a cartoon Roadrunner hammered into it was all that was left of whatever he did to earn it.
In the Marines everybody got a nickname. Dad’s was Roadrunner because, he said, “Nobody could ever catch me.” Like most of his stories, that one evolved over the years too, but I’m not sure he ever finished it. I’m not sure I ever got the whole truth behind the Roadrunner. My dad was never proud and never bragged about anything he did in the Marines, but this was different, and I’m still not sure why. That’s all I could think about that day. That belt buckle and the unfinished story behind it.
The lung floor of any hospital is a different place from all the other floors. Most people on a lung floor are dying prematurely from totally preventable deaths. Every hallway, bathroom, and waiting area reeks of cigarette smoke. It’s filled with dying sixty-year-olds who look eighty, with most of their friends and family looking the exact same. I was a great smoker: even after both my lungs collapsed a few years earlier, I was still a great smoker. I was ticcing like crazy and fighting off panic attacks. I couldn’t smoke in Dad’s room, so I’d sip on a premixed bottle of vodka and orange juice I kept in the bottom of my bag. Drinking always helped with my tics and anxiety. Or maybe I just cared less when I was half-drunk.
I’d go from wanting to be there, right by his side, to needing an escape; from wanting to make every second last to wanting it all to be over. One minute I promised myself I was never going to let go of his hand, and the next I was making every possible excuse to go and do anything else. I’d go on coffee runs, or pretend I had to pee so I could hide in a bathroom to stand beside a urinal and cry. Then I’d smoke. I’d take the elevator down three flights and walk out to the sidewalk to sit and smoke with dying addicts. I’d smoke with people wearing robes and slippers, in wheelchairs with oxygen tanks attached to the back. I’d put on my headphones and listen to “Pink Moon” by Nick Drake two or three times, and we’d smoke. In the rain. This somehow made me feel better about myself. And I’m sure, in some fucked-up way, it made them feel better about themselves too.
You’d think walking back up to the lung floor smelling like wet cigarettes would be frowned upon, but it was the furthest thing from that. You could hear people take in deep breaths as you walked by. I wasn’t gross or some reminder of bad decisions. The exact opposite, actually. To them, I was delicious. I smelled like home.
After one of my long smoke breaks, I walked back into Dad’s room and found myself alone with him. Rich and Leanna were off getting food, Taylor was probably with them, and I’m sure my mom was out on the phone updating friends or somewhere catching her breath. It wasn’t for long, but me and my Pops were alone. After the DNR was signed, I’d stopped asking questions about recovery and procedures. I had no interest in what happened next, or how long Dad had. The only question I remember asking was, “Can he still hear me?”
The doctor replied, “Yeah, I’m sure he can. Talk to him.”
But what do you say? How do you even come up with the last thing you’ll ever say to someone? All I wanted to do was hear his laugh. I didn’t want to say anything to him, but I wanted to hear everything. I wanted him to snap up and tell me where he’d been these last few days, and whether it was beautiful. I wanted him to open his eyes and say something funny. I wanted that awkward high-five followed by a kiss on the forehead he’d always give me, sometimes for doing something great, but most times for no reason at all.
I knew this was going to be my last time alone with him. I knew this was it. I’m sure he did too. I couldn’t fix him, or make any of this better, but I owed him something. I had to just be the fucking kid he raised. The words I said would be a direct reflection of him. All his hard work, advice, and sacrifice.
I pulled my chair in close, rested my head on his chest, and said, “Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas, I love you, and goodnight,” which were all the things I knew he’d miss hearing the most. Those four things, said with a kiss on the forehead, were always guaranteed to light him up. That was my dad, and that was the last thing I ever said to him.
When it was time to say goodbye, when his body fought like hell for that last breath, my mom gave that moment to me and my brother. We climbed into bed with him, me on Dad’s left and Rich on his right. Mom stood at the bottom of the bed rubbing his feet. She didn’t move, break down, or say a single word. She was built for this, and she knew this was the way my Pops would want to go. Exactly like that. That was the day that hollowed me out, and it was perfect.
Goodnight, Roadrunner.