When I thought of this title, I almost didn't want to write the blog. Because if you were in my head, you wouldn't need to read anything else. But, you aren't. Thank your lucky stars for that. So I will write.
My Dad died Saturday.
If you were in my heart, I wouldn't have to write another sentence, because there's nothing else to say. But you aren't. (Or maybe you are, but my heart just had a seismic event and we're going to need you to check in before we recognize you).
I don't want to talk about it. I was incapable of talking about it as of yesterday. Today I simply don't want to.
But I do want to write about it. Or if not it, my process of dealing/not dealing with it.
My dad told me he was experiencing some stomach pain in May. I told him to see a doctor. My dad hates doctors, so we got in a fight. But, by the end of the fight he agreed to go get some tests done. In the end they determined that he had severe constipation and needed to be put on a special diet to increase his weight and have enough fibre to get better. What they didn't notice was the mass on his spine indicating some kind of cancer. My sister, the saint, went down and made him some good food and tried to help him out. But he didn't get better, because although spaghetti is delicious, it's not a cure for UN-diagnosed cancer.
Meanwhile, I was visiting all the parks in Southern California as Iago. Thinking I was making a difference by bringing Shakespeare to the masses. And maybe I did. I certainly wrote a lot about it. As you can read elsewhere in my blog.
After the summer, I was lined up to play David O Selznick in "Moonlight and Magnolias" at the Rubicon Theatre in Ventura. It's a part I had played before, with the same director and most of the same cast. It was an amazing experience when we did it before...and, with the exception of heartbreaking personal loss, an even better one this time.
My dad told me that he thought he had cancer three weeks ago. I was home from Ventura for a couple of days before our very quick run. I asked him why he thought that. He told me that Dr. Baker had done an X-Ray and seen a mass on his spine. He was to have a follow up with a surgeon in a few days. (That never happened, because Baker sent him to a doctor who no longer practiced, further sending my dad into distrust of the medical profession). Meanwhile, I was opening a show at the Rubicon. (A really lovely theatre in Ventura. Filled with wonderful, caring, nurturing, theatre professionals). It wouldn't be stretching the truth to call this the best professional experience of my career.
The following week, my dad tells me he's ready to die. Aside from his spine being messed up from a fall, and the mass seen on one X-ray, he has had a death experience. He told me that his heart had stopped and he had become one with the Universe, and only came back to get his affairs in order before joining my mom in eternity. I asked if he had gone for a second opinion. He let me know where I could stick the second opinion and all of western medicine. But that was fine. I knew it was coming. I told him that I could be home by the 20th. He told me he wasn't dying on my schedule. We both laughed.
A week later, he was in hospice.
When we talked last Sunday, he told me that he didn't think he could wait for me. I told him that was fine. He told me that he loved me and was proud of the life I lived. I told him that I loved him and was grateful to have him as my dad. I told him that I was sorry (again) for not being there. He told me (again) that there was nothing I could do for him and that he was proud that I was making theatre.
I had two shows on Saturday. After the first, I learned that he had died. I cried a lot. I pulled myself together and did the second show for him. My castmates were amazing. My director pulled herself out of a sickbed to be on hand. I did that show for him. To honor him.
I wasn't with him when he passed. I'm glad Christy was.
He told me that we were together, even though I was a thousand miles away.
Doing that show was the hardest thing I've ever done. But I was able to put on the suit and glasses and lose myself in David Selznick. Maybe it was denial. But I honored my dad that night and blew him a kiss at curtain call.
That's the backstory. What I learned comes in part two.
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