Dad, Diamonds, and Foghorn Leghorn

I had a dream last night about my dad, who died in 2005 at 65 years old. I wish he was still here. We were one of those families where my dad worked all the time, kept a nice roof over our heads, food on the table, and presents under the Christmas tree. Yet, he was very much under-appreciated, even by me, the sensitive one.

My mom had a cleaning lady keep the house. She cooked dinner and owned a hair salon, where she worked maybe an hour or two a day, mostly just to socialize and smoke. I look back and see how easy she had it, and maybe I shouldn't feel this way, but I'm a little...well, angry isn't really the word, it's more like disgusted. She got everything she wanted. Closets jammed full of clothes she never wore, fur coats, gold, diamonds...and not no little one carat diamonds. She has three diamond rings over 4 carats. One is worth $80,000. Never once did I hear her tell my dad she loved him. Never once did I hear her thank him for anything.

What I did hear was a lot of bickering over things that didn't matter, and complaining. A lot of threatening to leave him. Once, when I was 13, my dad grew weary and said he was going to leave. That surprised my mom, because she immediately burst into tears and clutched his arms and begged him to stay. He did.

My dad seemed to sort of glide through life in his workaholic way (I'm glad I inherited my work ethic and just about every good quality from him). When I grew up, went to college, and joined the Air Force, we started talking more, usually via AOL dial up email. He bought me my first computer, my first car. He didn't pay my way through college. He didn't go to college, but made it to the top of his field by working his way up. He didn't believe much in college degrees. It's too bad things are different now. It's easy to get a college degree. Anyone can learn a skill, and if they're a hard worker, they're worth more to a company than a 22 year old spoon fed kid holding a piece of paper.

Over the years, my dad became a heavy drinker, probably because of the way my mom treated him. He had a few heart attacks, then a quintuple bypass. I took leave from the AF to come home to care for him after surgery. I remember making him dinner while my mom sat in her recliner and complained that he was getting all the attention.

During one of my dad's last hospital stays, my mom complained that he was getting the royal treatment and "great" meals, and being waited on hand and foot. She said she wished she could be in the hospital. She truly has never realized how good she had it. Well, maybe now she does, because she has end stage COPD and is basically home bound. But still, she shifts the blame. She can't blame my dad anymore, so she now blames God. And me. Thank God I didn't inherit my dad's tendency to drink.

Even when my dad was dying, lying in a hospital bed in his family room, my mom refused to give in and help him with anything. He NEVER complained. My mom hired a nurse to take care of him so she could sit in her recliner and smoke. She would say, "Oh, stop. You aren't going to die."

Finally, he demanded that she call me and tell me to come, because he wouldn't survive the week. I was living in Issaquah, WA at the time, and I caught the next flight home. I walked into the front door at around ten pm. The nurse was there, and my mom had gone to bed. I walked up to his hospital bed, and told him I was there.

He was mostly out of it,but nodded. His eyes were closed.

I repeated, "Dad, it's me. I'm here now."

He was quiet.

I asked, ""Who am I, Dad?" I wanted him to be sure it was me.

He whispered, "You're Mindy." He hinted at a ghost of a smile.

"Yes, I'm here. I'll see you in the morning."

I didn't. The next thing I knew, my younger brother burst into my room and said, "Dad's dead."

I came out to the family room, and the nurse was going through my dad's medications as my mom SAT IN HER RECLINER AND WATCHED TV.

My dad looked gaunt but peaceful as I shed my tears of grief over him. I turned to my mom and screamed, "WHY DIDN'TYOU WAKE ME UP!?" That startled everyone, because I NEVER yell.

She, without a tear in her eye, said, "I didn't want to wake you up. You had a long trip."

I couldn't believe it. She didn't want to wake me up so I could hold my dad's hand as he DIED, because I had a long trip?

Today, I look back, and I cry foul (instead of using a worse word). She didn't wake me up because she was jealous, once again, of the attention my dad would get, instead of her.

I am glad I didn't inherit her selfishness. And I am thankful of a talk my dad and I had a few months before he died, while we waited in the car for my mom to finish shopping. He said he was proud of how I turned out. He was proud of my accomplishments. And I got to finally say, "Thank you," for all he had done and sacrificed for the sake of me and my brothers. I told him I loved him.

My dream last night was a good one. There was sunshine, and he was healthy, and he was standing beside a convertible. That's all I remember, but I know he will be back. I dream of him often.

I wonder if he tells God about Foghorn Leghorn, his favorite Looney Tunes character, like he used to tell me on Saturday mornings when I was glued to the TV watching that iconic hour of Roadrunner, Wile E. Coyote, and Bugs Bunny.

I bet my dad thinks it's great to be able to talk to someone who will listen without interrupting to complain. :)