I feel my Father everywhere. As my husband and I walk down the hospital hall, past the creepy painting of the severe-looking woman to the elevators, I feel I am falling backwards. The world is blurry on both sides, like when spaceships move into warp-speed. I am trying to get to a part of my brain, a memory, I want to tap in and reach it, taste it, smell it, be there, but it's just out of my reach, fingers just brushing the tail of a fleeing cat.
Blinking once, hard, I remind myself that it's my turn. I try saying it in my head, "This is my bone transplant. I am going up these elevators and not coming down for weeks. I am not a visitor." I picture my husband, my brother, my son walking gingerly down the same corridor, but going the other way, out into the world, their backs to me, their voices light chatter floating on thick hospital air.
Standing in front of the elevators, I get a momentary flash. I have the carafe of Peets coffee and newspaper that I brought every other morning or so on my way to work. I'm balancing it all in one hand and pressing the button for "up." So casual.
My husband and I board the elevator and ascend to the eleventh floor, "Eleven Long," as it's known. When the doors open, I'm reaching again, back in my head. I catch a glimpse of my Dad sitting up in bed, reading, looking cheerful, eyeing the coffee in my hand. I never did understand how he stomached it, straight up, black.
My room is different. It's on the other side of the ward, with a better view. I sit up in bed and I don't feel cheerful and I don't want to read anything. There's something on my right, I can't see it, but it's taking up space. I feel peace filling my body, which is unusual for me. It's like a warm, reassuring hug. I don't even believe in this kind of stuff, but at that moment I know he's there, standing with me.
Many months before he died, but when he knew he was going to, he told me he was glad he wouldn't be around to see me suffer through my bone marrow transplant. He said no parent should ever have to do that. Yet he came and he stayed with me ... until I didn't need him anymore.
--Katie Zarling Buono
July 2008
Comments (9)
Oh Katie,
This post has me in tears. I hope you are okay. I miss you.
Posted by Shirley | July 17, 2008 7:55 PM
Posted on July 17, 2008 19:55
Katie, this was beautiful. I always enjoyed hearing you talk about your father and the obvious love you had for each other.He would be so proud of you, for the way you've handled everything, for the wonderful woman and mother you are. much love to you!
Posted by Charlene | July 17, 2008 9:40 PM
Posted on July 17, 2008 21:40
I don't know what to say (for once) except that I am profoundly moved, tears welling up, with my heart open so wide, wanting to wave my magic wand and take this all away for you, as friends do.
Big love,
Mer
Posted by Meredith | July 18, 2008 10:36 AM
Posted on July 18, 2008 10:36
Dear Katie,
I don't know, but as difficult as it has been to walk over the internet with you through this BMT, I am pleased and proud to be with you through this ordeal. There is certainly not much that I can do but be here and send my love and support to you. I really believe that your dad would have been a support to you but it was his way of dealing with his own death, which I am so sorry that he had to do.
Anyway, I am happy for you that you felt his presence and it was a peace for you.
Life takes so many awkward turns and twists and I guess we just have to deal with each one as they come along or when we are able.
I am here always and have you in my heart at all times.
Love and hugs,
Mom
Posted by Mom | July 18, 2008 11:07 AM
Posted on July 18, 2008 11:07
So, you asked me once, kinda freaked, if it ever gets any easier, this losing a parent to cancer, and I think my honest answer was "yes and no." Because having been through it changes you in such a profound way. So, here's some yes. Yes, you watched him have a transplant first and go through many other treatments first and it made you very, very informed, both medically and emotionally. Yes, because he, doesn't have to watch you go through this and you can feel relieved for him. And then finally, the comfort of feeling him here with you. Nothing can take that from you, no pinche cancer, not yours not his.
love you,
Shona
Posted by Shona Mauro-Sachs | July 18, 2008 5:02 PM
Posted on July 18, 2008 17:02
Katie, Your writing amazes me. I feel as if I am physically with you through your journey and in your thoughts too. You are a lovely and talented woman. Please keep the blog going. love & prayers, Cathy
Posted by Cathy | July 19, 2008 11:37 AM
Posted on July 19, 2008 11:37
I loved your dad. Along with my brother, Carl, he is in my earliest memories. Carl and Ray were less than a month apart. Imagine the situation: World War II was on. The housing crisis was acute, so we were all living with Grandma and Grandpa in their two bedroom house in West Milwaukee--me at 15 months with my dad and pregnant mom and your pregnant grandmother, Sylvia. Your grandfather was in the Navy in the South Pacific. My father was a doctor at the VA just up the hill from Grandpa's house. On September 12 my mom had Carl. On October 9 Sylvia had Ray. Next thing you know, they were doing diapers--no disposables then-for three babies. At least the washer was one of the new kind--the tub aggitated automatically. The wringer, of course, was hand powered. No automatic dryer. The laundry had to be hauled up from the basement to the clothes line or hung in the basement in bad weather. And can you imagine one kitchen trying to cope with sterilizing glass bottles and making formula? I am in awe of our foremothers. And Ray. And you.
Blessings, Eva
Posted by Eva | July 20, 2008 10:43 AM
Posted on July 20, 2008 10:43
Yes, Katie I do feel that the "spirit" of a loved one does remain with us for a period of time. Cherish these times - try not to let them fade (although they will over time)
I still always think and hope that Bill will walk through the back door once again with Lori and state, "I'm Home." Continue these blogs. We're loving them!
Posted by Jamie Zarling | July 21, 2008 7:45 PM
Posted on July 21, 2008 19:45
Hi Katie,
I'm Greg Tarbox. We've not met (yet). I'm friends with Ron & Marlene. Ron and I have regular calls and we always make time to catch up on family. It's my favorite part of our talks.
Ron shared with me your blog and I've read every entry. I'm writing to tell you how impressed and moved I am by your courage, honesty and sense of humor.
And to express my gratitude for the gift of perspective you've provided me to take back into my world.
A heartfelt Thank You from here to there. Know that there's a team routing for you in Maine!
- Greg
Posted by Greg | July 22, 2008 5:12 AM
Posted on July 22, 2008 05:12