It is 12:09 midnight at the Way house and nothing is stirring except this mouse. My fingers are nibbling at the keys. My dad used to like to sit and listen to me type his hand written journals or transcribe his reading. He used to say my typing sounded like a gerbil. The clickety-clack was so fast and relentless.
My dad was a story teller and writer. He used metaphors and wit to re=tell the adventures of his life. The most important story he told or wrote was of his relationship to Rasheed, a young man he befriended in the inner cities of Camden New Jersey. My dad volunteered to move there and be part of Urban Promise, a mission group who assisted the impoverished in fixing their homes and enrolling in schools, learning the trades etc. During his life my dad kept a journal which he wrote in every day. He treated his self-imposed 3 page per day quota with a devotion rarely found. We converted the journal entries from that time into a book which he titled 'The Camden Diaries'.
In the weeks leading to my papa’s death he spoke repeatedly about his writing and his book. It was his dying wish that his book be published. My brother and I promised him we would do our best but he wasn’t satisfied. We tried to secure a publisher before he passed and my brother, thinking we had been successful told my dad he was going to be published. A look of relief passed over his face that I had not seen before. He smiled and wept with joy. He died believing this. His book is still not published.
December 10th was my father’s birthday and the 2 year anniversary of my being admitted to Richmond General Hospital for stomach pain. The pain turned out to be the first flag waver of end-stage liver disease. When my husband drove me to the hospital that night I believed my symptoms were due to pregnancy. You may imagine my disappointment to learn that quite the opposite was true. My liver was dying; I was not creating a new life inside me. This, after I pre-emptively bought a 7 seat minivan to house our growing family! I’ve always been an incurable optimist.
My dad believed that certain people were born into this world to bring positive change to people’s lives in big ways and in small. He called these people Advocates. Advocates are called to face negativity with fresh ideas, positive change and creativity. I asked my dad if he was using the word advocate to describe what others may call an Angel. No. Advocates are aggressively pursuing positive change. Angels are too nice! He told me he was an advocate and so was I. I didn't mind being called an advocate. I looked upon it as an honourable expectation.
My dad was given a year to live but never assigned power of attorney or wrote a will. The only provision he cared about was his journals which he left to me. All his affairs and everything he owned were left to my brother and me to sort out. Some people were offended and dumbfounded by my father’s refusal to assign power of attorney or write a will. He never faced the end during his last year. He fought only to live and assumed this outcome until there was no possibility of it being so. And, even then he wouldn’t commit it to paper. Ahh... papa. It was your birthday December 10th. I guess I’m missing you.
No comments:
Post a Comment