The Street Light

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The Street Light

It was mid March in 2003 when I was made keenly aware of the fact that our parents really never stop caring for us, and in turn, I guess we never stop caring for our children. My father, having been diagnosed with cancer and recently having undergone surgery for removal of a very large and rare cancerous tumor which resulted in the loss of his spleen and a good percentage of his stomach, lie motionless in the Intensive Care Unit. I wondered if my shaking legs would collapse as I slowly approached his hospital bed. I can remember being engulfed in feelings of sadness, fear and apprehension as I glanced at the incoming and outgoing tubes that had been inserted into his neck and arms and the bruises that surrounded their entry points. I watched as his thumb pressed the red button which distributed small intermittent amounts of morphine into his body and wondered if the machine was adequately monitoring the amount he chose to self-administer. I later learned with great disappointment that he had experienced additional and unnecessary pain, having only used a very minimal amount. (No one on the hospital staff had explained to him that the machine would not disburse more medication than he should have.)

I quietly walked up to his hospital bed and held back the tears as I saw this once strong, tough working man now lying helpless, pale, and thin. I bent and gently kissed him on the forehead and asked, “Dad, is there anything I can do for you?” “No, baby…I’m fine,” he replied. I sat next to him in the chair trying to act confident and calm while my heart was breaking inside. In my gut I knew that this wicked, wretched enemy that was causing this great man so much pain, this immeasurable evil that the surgeon had said with undeniable indifference “may” have been eradicated, would return someday. I’d feared a moment like this since I was a little girl.

It was then that I began to ask my father, what I now consider to be ignorant and unnecessary questions about his surgery. Unknown to me at the time, he hadn’t been informed of the tumor, the removal of certain organs, or the fact that he’d had cancer. In my bumbling attempt to make conversation, I inadvertently informed him of his ailments and the results of his “exploratory” surgery. Trying not to act startled, which he knew would alarm me, he calmly stated, “Oh, so it was cancer…” I knew with that statement that I’d not handled this situation well, assuming he’d been fully informed by his surgeon, who by then I’d imagined was undoubtedly trying for par on the 4^th or 5^th hole somewhere on this sunny Florida Saturday afternoon.

So I sat there, attempting to repair the psychological damage I’d unwittingly caused to my best friend, by holding his hand, leaving his room only to get coffee or when I was directed to do so by a hospital attendant, and then pacing outside his room until I was once again invited back. I sat near him, trying to keep my mouth shut and doing the best I could to provide some company at a time when no one really wants to make unnecessary conversation.

And when visiting hours had long passed and it was time for me to leave, I stood up and began to fumble through my purse for the car keys. I had been staying at his house alone while we went through this life altering event as a family, my brother and his family only a few miles down the road. Lying still in his current white, sanitized environment, my father’s eyes glanced up at me. I said, “I love you, dad.” He answered, as he always did, with: “I love you too, sweetheart.” And with that, our routine, yet heartfelt verbal goodbye was over and I turned to make my exit. I was stopped in my tracks when I heard his weakened voice utter the words: “Linda, did you remember to park under the street light? You shouldn’t be out there all alone at night. I’ve always told you to park under the light. Did you remember to do that?” I turned, walked back toward his bed, leaned to kiss him goodnight again and heard my 41 year old voice sound like a teenage girl once more as I told him, “Yes, daddy…I parked under the light.”

As I drove home in the dark night, I thought to myself how unselfish a man lie there and how much love he has for his family. In obvious pain and discomfort, he was worried about me at a time when all the worrying should have been about himself. But he’d always worried about me and he was always there for me. He had always put me first and I miss him terribly.

As we grow older, live our own lives and raise our own families, it becomes apparent that no one will ever worry about us like our parents did. Their legacy lives on however, because I know in time, I'll hear my father's words echo in my head as I ask my daughters, "Did you remember to park under the street light? You know what grandpa always said..."

Linda Ellis