Dream 2: A father even in death

Set up:
My father passed away on April 13, 2004 at 6:01 a.m. alone in a nursing home from heart failure. He was in the nursing home receiving physical therapy because his right leg had been amputated above the knee due to cellulitis. If he hadn't died, I imagine that his left leg would have been next. He was a large man, at least 300 or more pounds. We tried caring for him at home but we could not lift him and he soon became totally dependent on others to take care of him. This dream is simple, not vivid like the one about my mother carrying me, but its message is clear and dear to me. I am not looking for ratings, as I am writing this to heal my depression, but comments would be nice.


Dream:

I am at my parents' house. It is the house I grew up in, the house I tumbled down the staircase while in my baby walker. I broke my collar bone. It could have been worse but thankfully that was all. I used to have nightmares about it and am still terrified of falling forty-two years later. The three-bedroom ranch house with three full bathrooms and a finished basement has changed a lot over the years. It was the only home I knew until I married at age 21 and shall always remain very dear to my heart.

I walk from the kitchen through the untrimmed doorway where the old sliding glass doors to the backyard had been and step into the four-season 'porch' my father had built over the patio. My parents loved each other but they didn't always get along. They came to tolerate each other. But when my father built the four-season room, the animosity between my parents thickened. Their animosity started in my childhood, continued through my teenage years, and even when I married and moved far from home. It continued until the day my father died. Needless to say, my mother hated the room. Because she carpeted the room in a patterned red, green, and white berber, it always looks ready for Christmas, makes me feel as if it is Christmas whenever I enter it, even though I can see out one of the 15 windows that the Sweetgum trees are covered in green leaves and my grandmother's peonies are in bloom by the old shed that looks like a miniature barn.

I stop a few feet into the room, surprised to see my father sitting in his blue, electric recliner that rises him with a touch of a button. Out of the corner of my right eye, I see a football game flashing on the television screen but can't hear it.

My dad doesn't touch the button on the controls but stands, on two legs, not a stump and a leg. He is wearing the same brown and gray plaid flannel shirt he wore when I was a kid. I have this flannel and a few others he wore. They hang behind my bedroom door, ready to warm me on cold days or make me feel better on days when I am missing him and mom. Dad and I shared a similar sense of humor, the same impatience, the need to be on time, and I inherited his ability to pack a car/trunk so that every box, bag, suitcase fits just right. I look like his paternal grandmother, my great grandmother Alice Booth. So much, we could be twins.

My father is thinner than I remember. He looks healthy too, not pale and exhausted. His hair is still coal black and so are the whiskers covering his face. My dad has always resembled Fred Flintstone to me. He used to give us Indian burns with his thick whiskers on my arms and tummy when I was young. I miss that fun, loving side of him. It has laid dormant for too many years.

My father stares at me. He looks upset.

I am scared, but I say, "Hi, Dad" as cheerfully as I can.

He doesn't tell me hi or smile. Instead he asks, demands why I didn't tell him.

I am confused. "Tell you what?" I ask.

He says I should have told him that my mother was sick, that she was dying.

I remind him that I could not tell him because he is dead, has been dead for three and a half years. I tell him he should have known before I did, should have warned me that my mother was dying so I could have saved her, or at least got her to a doctor before she was a stage four.

His shoulder slump. He sighs and says, "I wish I would have known, that's all." My father was not a good husband to my mother. He was selfish and had anger issues. He was abused as a child, taken behind the barn and beaten with a belt, over stupid things: not nailing correctly, not completing his chores quickly enough or well enough... But my father never laid a finger on me, my three sisters, or my mother. For that, I have much respect for him, love him dearly, and commend him for stopping the abuse that was passed on, from father to son, for generations in the Peacock family. My mother believed and said this is why God did not give them boys. I believe my father made that decision, not God. For if there is a God, he doesn't grant us children, but the ability to have them.

I am not happy that my father is caring about my mother now. I feel it is too little too late. He used to yell at my mother, make her feel that she could do nothing right except put a hot meal on the table and iron his work shirts that were stained yellow under the arms and around the collars from working 9 to 5 for thirty years. I do not feel sad that my father did not know my mother was so sick, that she was dying. I feel he would have done what he usually did, nothing. Just like he did back in '84 when my mother had breast cancer for the first time. He dropped her off at the front door for Chemo on his way to work and then took her home on his lunch hour. My mother used to comment, as if her heart was longing, how most of the other husbands stayed and held their wife's hand during their chemo treatments. Twenty years later, my mother would still tell me how one husband would always leave as soon as his wife fell asleep during her treatment but that he always returned a short time later with a rose. Not red that reminded her of how inflamed and sore she was, but cheerful, inspirational colors of love like pink and yellow...

My father tells me that he will take care of my mother now.

I believe him. His eyes are gleaming with tears; he is hurting; he is regretful; he looks old and tired now. I know and feel his pain. I hear his heart wishing he had been a more observant and loving husband. My heart breaks for him. He has been carrying a heavy load. I realize he did the best he knew how, the best he could with what he had: a broken heart desperately in need of love and affection.

I silently apologize for not telling him. I understand what he means now--about him wishing I would have told him. I've only visited his grave a few times since he died. Those times, I did not talk to him, did not tell him about my mother's cancer. Instead, I stared at his grave in disbelief, regretting so much unfinished business, unfinished conversation, unfinished fun, unfinished carpenter projects he had planned-like the oak bed for my daughter. The wood still lies across the rafters, unused and dusty. For as hot tempered as my father was, he did have a fun streak that came out on rare occasions. Over the years, he and I shared lots of teases, lots of winks, and jokes. Like the time I was cutting my daughter's birthday cake. I was having trouble dragging the knife through the cake. After a few slices, I realized I was using the dull side of the knife. I glanced at my father, the only one watching, and he smiled and gave me a wink, as if saying: "I won't tell even though it was a silly thing to do". He was a better father than a husband.

I wake up feeling guilty, but I know my parents are finally together, loving and respecting each other as they should have in their living years.