My father’s life ended late in the afternoon of June 11, 1979. Three days before, he had slipped into and out of a coma. He remained in a coma the whole next morning and afternoon, then came out of it that evening at nine P.M. Until close to midnight, he was congenial and alert. And I alone was not there to see him.
Earlier that night, I’d kissed my sleeping father good-bye and driven back to Newport, to try and steal a decent night’s sleep, to try and steel myself for the misery to come. Driving home, I realized I couldn’t recall very much of our last conversation, except that my dad had asked about Lornee. Believing he’d never come out of his coma, it occurred to me that my father and I would never talk again.
Upon my return in the morning to UCLA, my brothers and sisters gave me the news from the night before. In bits and pieces, they all reported how fantastic it was to see him that way. For three hours, it was like having our old father back, they said. I smiled and said, “What a great thing,” secretly wanting to know, Did he ask about me? Did he ask where I was?
How could I tell them how wretched I felt, how dishonorable? He was near death and once again I had failed him.
That Friday, my worst fear was that my father would die and I would be some other place, unable forever to say goodbye face to face. That morning, his third day in a coma, the doctors said he had less than twelve hours to live. All morning and afternoon I stayed upstairs. Shortly after five, Marisa and I rushed down to the cafeteria to eat what for us was lunch. The page came then. I ran to the phone and the voice at the other end said we’d better hurry right up, his blood pressure was plunging.
When we burst into the room he was still living, and his breathing was peaceful. It had become so tortured the past few days, I had feared my father might choke to death as he slept. Now he was breathing mildly, evenly, and except for Michael, who was with the lawyers, I think, we were all in my father’s room—Patrick, Marisa, Melinda, Toni, Ethan, Pat Stacy, and myself. Moving in close I clasped his right hand. My father always had clean, attractive hands, and I noticed looking down that his hands still looked healthy—the cancer had not diminished them. As I held his hand, my father inhaled, and his breath never came back out.
My father died at 5:23 in the long summer daylight, encircled by six of his children. His passing should not have stunned me. He was seventy-two and had cancer. But it did stun me. The child within me believed he would live forever.
During my life I had never seen anyone die. And although my father went gently, it surprised me how quickly his life went when it did. One instant he was still breathing, still my dad—he died too fast. It was over too soon.
He really is gone, I thought, kissing his forehead. Moving aside for the other children and Pat, I heard someone say, “He’s in a better place now.” It could be true, I said silently. He was so sick for so long. But it might not be true at all. He really liked living.
Brought back by all the hugging and sobbing, I started to worry for poor Marisa, only thirteen and crazy about her dad. “Make sure Marisa’s okay,” my father had said, the closest he’d come to addressing our lives after his death. I went to Marisa and held her, told her how much her daddy loved her, and about this time the nurse returned to draw the white sheet across my father’s shoulders. “I love you, I’ll miss you,” I whispered, then with one look over my shoulder I crossed to the door.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” my mother said that night, sounding frail and far away. “It’s a blessing. He’s finally at peace.”