auntbijou: (icon by <lj user="odyssey">)
So, I was listening to this earlier today. It's President Lyndon Baines Johnson, ordering some custom-made lightweight slacks from Hagger, and while I was cracking up at him saying, "Leave me about an inch from where the zipper ends around under my... back to my bunghole," it was something else that he said that got me all thoughtful and wandering around in my memory.

Ol' LBJ has a very strong Central Texas accent, which is something I've gotten used to hearing since I've lived here, though I think it got softened somewhat during his years in Washington, D.C. It got my attention, though, when he asked that they add about an inch to the side pockets, because whenever he sat down, "my knife and my money fall out." And boy, wasn't that a familiar complaint, because my dad used to say that all the time after he moved out of the oil fields and into the office, a change which required him to wear suits and dress slacks. The pockets weren't deep enough to hold his change, his keys, and his jackknife, and my mom usually ended up at her sewing machine, with his suit trousers over her lap, pinning extra fabric to the pockets to make them deeper. Because in the South that my dad grew up in, a man was never caught without his jackknife in his pocket.

A jackknife was sacred.

What's a jackknife?

Well, I don't know how it is up north, but most men from the southern half of this country used to carry what we called a jackknife or a pocket knife with them everywhere they went, and they weren't used for defense or for cuttin' somebody up bad, etc. They were used to do little things, like... sharpen a pencil, or cut the gordian knot most little kids manage to mangle their shoelaces into when they're first learning to tie their shoes, or pick out a splinter in the same kid's foot because Daddy let them run around barefoot, because they couldn't tie their shoes any more, etc. It could be used to cut string for bundling newspapers together, or the tip of the blade could be used as a makeshift screwdriver when that little screw that holds the ear piece to one's glasses fell out, or to cut a blooming rose from the rosebush in the front yard to give the elderly lady from across the street who'd come over to give the family the cookies she'd just baked. Need a fishing pole? Daddy would whip out his jackknife, cut a tree branch, then cut some string, pry apart a paperclip to bend into a hook, and there you go. Were you misbehaving? Out would come the knife to cut a switch from the hazel bush so Mom could apply it in the way she deemed most effective.

It was sort of an everyman's tool of the trade. You'd see them pulled out in barbecue joints to slice sausage into small pieces for little ones to nibble, or into chunks for chewing. Or to cut a plug of tobacco for chewing (EWWWWW!!!). I remember watching one of my great uncles whipping it out and using it to pry a rock out of a horseshoe when his horse started limping, and then wiping it on his pants before cutting a chunk off an apple to reward the same horse for her patience. You don't see them much any more. Especially in these days of heightened airport security.

My dad got me one for my thirteenth birthday, and I was very proud of it, too, even though I'm not a boy. I guess he got tired of me asking to borrow his all the time when I needed to put a new hook on my fishing line! I still have it, though I don't use it any more, because it's very fragile now. But, I have a Swiss Army Card Knife that the Husbandly One got for me about ten or fifteen years ago, which I keep in my purse. It's not the same thing, but I use it for just about everything when I'm out and about.

It's kind of weird, I admit, to walk by the little shelf where the Husbandly One puts all the things that he keeps in his pocket; wallet, keys, phone... but there's no jackknife. I'm used to it now, but... it just seems like such a husbandly, fatherly sort of item, and it's odd not to see it there.

And I remember after my father had died, and one of the first times I went back to the house where I'd grown up after the funeral, I was walking toward Mom's room, and hesitated, because right there, on the sideboard by the door, behind the photo of my nephew... there was my dad's little pile of things. Wallet, keys, assorted change, odd little items he'd either picked up, or been given by friends... and his jackknife. Yeah, it made me tear up.

And do you know, when I went to Mom's new house, I walked into her bedroom and there on her dresser, in "his" corner, his little pile of things. Wallet, keys, change, odd little objects... and his jackknife.

It seemed kind of right, and made me think that maybe it makes that house feel a little more like home for her. Like he's still there with her, even in the new place.

Whatever works.

It's still funny to think that even when he was president, LBJ carried a jackknife in his pocket. How the world has changed, in ways large and small.
auntbijou: (Default)
Hello my dears, I'm back.

You know, it's funny, no matter how much you know a dreaded event is coming, no matter now much you think you're prepared, that you've cried yourself out dry... when it comes, it is still a shock, and it still hurts an unbelievable amount, and you will say and do things as you blunder about in your grief, trying to force your brain to keep functioning, that will make you blush with embarrassment later.

I wasn't alone when I got the call, for which I am grateful. My mother had called much earlier in the day to let me know that Dad wasn't doing well, and she thought it might be that day, and I remember sitting in a stupor for some time before getting up and trying to do something to distract myself, like... washing dishes, cleaning the living room, and so on. Then I got another call telling me I'd better call THO and speed toward Houston, because Dad was failing. So, I called him and started ticking off things in my head that needed to be done. Arrange to have someone pick up the kids and keep them overnight (I wasn't exactly thinking straight), how long would it take us to get to Houston, etc... and I called our friend, E, who said quite sensibly, "Would you like me to come over and help you get some things together for the kids, in case you have to stay for a few days?"

I almost said no. I am absolutely terrible at accepting help, I really am. I always say, "No, no, I've got it, but thank you for offering, I really appreciate it," and I do! I do appreciate it, but I never take it, and I have no idea why! I was already running over a list of people in my head to call, and I really really wanted to call my best friend, but... I didn't want to disturb her at work (yes, that is absolutely stupid, and I know it, but there it is). But, I was very aware of her presence, and of THO's, standing next to me and both of them poking me and saying, "Say YES, you dunce!"

So I did.

And I am very, very, very glad I did, let me just say that now!

It took E some time to get here, and thus I had a chance to grab a shower, and feed the cats before the phone rang again, and it was my mom, and she was crying, and she said, "Your daddy is trying so hard to hang on long enough for you to get here, Auntie, he really is, but I don't think he can do it. He keeps saying it, 'I won't leave until Auntie gets here, I'll wait for Auntie,' but it's so hard for him, it's so hard..."

So I said the only thing I could. "Mom, you tell him to stop. Tell him that I said to let go. Tell him that Auntie said it's okay for him to let go, that I understand. Tell him I love him, and it's okay."

And I hung up, and sat down, and bawled.

By the time E got here, I was up and frantically busy. You see, as long as I was busy, I didn't have to think about it. THO was already racing home, but it takes 45 minutes to an hour to get home from where he works at the best of times. E held me and let me drip tears all over her, and fill her in on what was going on, and then, just when I'd gotten my composure back... the phone rang.

And I knew. I just knew. And I said, "Oh, I don't want to answer that, but I have to."

E said gently, "Do you want me to answer it for you?"

I said, "No. I already know what it is. I'll answer it."

And it was my oldest sister, very calm, very peaceful. She didn't even say hello. Just, "He's gone."

I don't really remember a lot after that, beyond howling with grief. I do know E tucked me in bed and started making phone calls for me, calling THO, and Char, and the school, but not a lot beyond that.

As it was, we didn't leave for Houston until Friday, because after I'd recovered a bit, and the kids had come home from school, we noticed Miss Priss was flushed, headachy, and sore-throaty, so I got her in to see the doctor pronto and hello Strep!

Didn't that just make our day?

So, the weekend has basically been full of spending time with my mother and sisters, making phone calls, looking through old photo albums and telling funny stories, having the oddest things happen, and all that goes with it. THO, the kids, and I stayed with my mom, looking after her without her noticing. Instead of urging her to eat, we'd simply prepare food and let her follow her nose into the kitchen, offering her a plate when she came in licking her lips. Instead of urging her to sleep, I'd just chatter on about nothing at all until her eyes drooped, and then let her lean on me as I walked her to bed and tucked her in. No, "Please, Mother, eat something," or "Mom, go to bed, you're about to drop in your tracks." Because she'd dig her heels in and refuse. I just... let her figure it out for herself. She got three full nights sleep... without medication... because we didn't make her nervous and worried before her own fatigue knocked her out.

One of the WEIRDEST things to happen, though, nearly sent my mother into hysterics. She and my dad haven't gone to church in yonks. Not since... well, geez, I must have been about seventeen or eighteen. The minister at their church had left and the guy who replaced him made Dad nauseous with his beliefs. And I admit, the guy creeped me out, big time. My parents could have gone back to the downtown church they'd belonged to before, but by that time, I think both of my parents were a bit burned out on it. So, when the funeral home asked who would officiate, Mom automatically said, oh, whoever's pastor of First Methodist Church downtown, because my dad, who had been raised Southern Baptist, was adamant that he did NOT want a Baptist minister to do his eulogy.

Well, First Methodist turned them down.

So Mom asked if there was a Methodist minister available through the funeral home.

There wasn't. There was a Baptist minister, who was rather moderate, if Mom wanted to just talk to him...?

So, Mom said, okay, have him call me.

I was starting a load of towels in the washing machine when the phone rang and turned to watch Mom answer it. She looked at the Caller I.D. and went absolutely white. Her mouth fell open, her hands flew to her mouth, and she gave a tiny scream before grabbing the phone shakily as I hurried up. She lifted it to her ear and said shakily, "Hello?"

I looked at the Caller I.D. It was my DAD'S name. Spelled exactly the same way, full first name, middle initial, last name, just the way my dad has always used it. Different phone number, but the same name.

It was the Baptist minister. He had the same name as my dad, though he went by his first name, where my dad always went by his middle name. And what's even creepier? When Mom handed the phone to me, the man's voice was just the way I remember my dad's sounding when I was a kid!!

We were all rather nervous about having him do the service, because of having to sit through many other funerals, with Southern Baptist ministers officiating, and getting varied versions of what we all started calling the "Fire and Brimstone/Convert the Family and Get Them All to Belong to My Church" speech. It was always less about offering comfort to us, the bereaved family, and more about letting us all know we were going to hell unless we were all baptized in this particular preacher's church. It was always more frenzied when the minister realized half the people in the room were Catholics.

This time, though, the minister with my dad's name actually seemed to realize we were all grieving and could really care less about whether or not we were going to hell. Though we were rather worried about whether or not Dad was going to sit up in that coffin and start yelling at us for disobeying him and having a damned Baptist giving his eulogy after he'd TOLD us specifically NOT to!

My sense of humor just can't stop asserting itself, can it?

Dad was a World War II veteran, so he had full military honors at his funeral, with a flag draped over his coffin, and 3 Marines there to do him honor in full dress uniforms. While "Taps" was played in the distance, his flag was lifted and reverentially folded...

... the wrong way.

I watched this, as did several others in my family who are familiar with the proceedings, with raised eyebrows. I even caught the poor private's eye and helpfully gestured with a jerk of my head how to fix it, but the poor thing was too terrified, and his gunny just muttered, "Keep going, we'll fix it later."

I leaned toward Mom, who was clinging to my arm, and whispered, "Daddy would have started growling and muttering at this point,"

She blinked, then leaned back and whispered, "How do you know he isn't now?"

It was folded, then presented her with appropriate words, and then, with a voice choked with emotion, the Gunny informed my mother that my dad was being buried on the birthday of the Marine Corps.

Daddy would have loved it. And you know, I'm not sure the stinker didn't plan it that way.

Of course, after the funeral, the Marines gently took the flag from my mom and folded it properly, and I'd like to thank Gunnery Sergeant Hernandez for keeping everything smooth, steady, and calm, and for giving Mom that little tidbit about the Marine Corps birthday. It made her smile on what was otherwise a very trying day.

And so we are all home now. My kids handled hearing about Grand-Daddy's death fairly well, and handled the funeral beautifully. They weren't as close to Grand-Daddy as they are to Grandma, and they were more worried about how Grandma was handling it than they were about anything else. She got a lot of hugs, and cuddling from her grandkids, which I think helped her more than anything else. She's tired, but she's relieved he's no longer suffering, or in pain. And even though she's grieving, by Monday, she was looking much better than she had on Friday, when we arrived.

I want to thank everyone who commented when I posted about my father's death. Your support and prayers and good thoughts mean the world to me, and it helped, oh, how it helped, just knowing that you are all there for me!

So, just imagine that Auntie is giving all of you hugs, each and every one! THANK YOU!!

...

Thursday, November 6th, 2008 04:59 pm
auntbijou: (Default)
My dad passed away a little after 2 p.m. today.

I am numb, and lost, and... numb.

...

Monday, October 6th, 2008 01:08 pm
auntbijou: (Default)
Saturday night for my dad was worse than I had been led to believe. I won't go into detail, but...

*sigh*

He's refusing all nutrition now. He can no longer swallow, and even what he gets through the feeding tube in his stomach ends up aspirated into his lungs. They'll let him go home, straight into hospice care, and they'll try to keep him at home unless his condition worsens to the point where he needs to be in the hospice facility, and they'll try to keep him comfortable there.

I find myself wishing very much that the Husbandly One was home right now.
auntbijou: (Default)
I'm restless and a bit edgy. Of course, after the week I've had, I guess I have a right to be.

My dad's been in the hospital. His cancer (esophageal) is back, and I guess you could say I hear the clock ticking now. Eight years ago, he was still strong, still relatively healthy, still stubborn and determined, so he came through his months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments and lasted seven years longer than his doctors expected.

Then it was about quantity of life, living long enough to get to know his newest grandson, the Impossible Son, and besides, he wasn't done yet.

Now, though, he's much more frail. Diabetes, arthritis, and the constant challenge of, "is this the day I won't be able to swallow and end up choking on my food?" has taken its toll on him.

It's about quality of life now.

He couldn't swallow last week, and when he went to see his doctor, they discovered the dilation that they've been doing for the last seven years wasn't going to work this time. So, it was decided to put in a stent to hold his esophagus open so food will go where it is supposed to. Except, his tumor is growing fast enough that it pushed the stent out of place and blocked it. So... back in the hospital, and after an attempt to re-situate it, they decided to put a second stent inside the first one to reinforce it.

The pain medication they gave Dad in the hospital at first made him cheerful and loopy and everyone's best friend ever. The pain meds they gave him the day before they released him, however, does not work as well, and makes him nervous, so he's sarcastic, impatient, grumpy, surly... you name it.

I have this feeling he's going to be going back, probably on Saturday, because you see, that would be inconvenient. For him and everyone else. That's just the way the universe works around us sometimes.

There's nothing I can do at this point except listen when my mom calls with her worries, call my sisters to make sure everyone's on the same page, and go outside to listen to the quiet so I don't transfer my stress to my own family. It makes me restless and tense. And cranky.

That's just the way it is, I guess. I'll go outside in a bit, watch the clouds for breaks so maybe I can catch a glimpse of the stars, and decompress a bit.

Maybe I'll beg THO to go out and get me chocolate. Lots, and lots, and lots of chocolate.

May 2020

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