Reverberation

My father would’ve turned 84 today, it’s his birthday. On this day in 1942, in an Irish enclave of the Bronx, Francis Manning James Edmonds was born. Looking back at his humble beginnings and all that he accomplished, I see what a good life he had. A life crafted entirely by, and for, himself. He had a rewarding career, travelled the world, and spent his free time on his interests, with friends and family. While he passed away 4 1/2 months ago, his life echoes through time and space.

Throughout his short-lived illness, my sisters and I focused on the matter at hand, getting him well., whatever that took. Once he was stable enough, we were going to bring him to Houston for rehab and cancer treatment. Or so we thought. That was the hypothetical plan my sister Liz and I had crafted anyway. We were taking it one day at a time, looking after our dad while asking questions of the doctors about their daily findings. His metastatic lung cancer, however, proved it was the fast and the furious.

It was a lot of upheaval. You used all your focus to stay grounded and pragmatic through an incredibly emotionally challenging time. But layered on top of all that, were the mundane, rudimentary responsibilities of our lives back home. Our dad is in Sarasota, Florida while all three of us, his daughters, reside in and around Houston. We each had different balls we were juggling. Me, I had a lot going on at work, my dog not doing well, and caregiving for my son Francisco to consider.

My younger sister Liz had recently seen her middle daughter off to college and her son was starting his senior year of high school. Envied most of all, was our older sister Christine vacationing with her husband in Sicily. Who wouldn’t want to be her? This became the subject of many sarcastic remarks, our tried-and-true family pastime. Fortunately, Christine returned to spend time with our father in what turned out to be the last week of his life.

We were constantly checking in with one another to share updates on our dad’s progress. Through these texts and conversations, before and after his death, there were some exchanges that struck me when they happened in real time. I knew, because of their resonance, they will reverberate. I’m going to remember this.

• “Are you there, are you there?”

That’s a voicemail from my Dad I saved on my phone. You can hear the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in the background. I had just spoken with him and the emergency room doctor moments before. I stepped out of my office for a minute and missed this phone call but immediately called him back. My father put me on speaker, and I recall overhearing the doctor asking him a couple of questions. “Do you know your heart rate is elevated?” “Tachycardia” I tell myself in my head. “How long have you needed oxygen?” “Oh shit” I say to myself out loud.

It was only 24 hours before that we learned he was having a pet scan, which is diagnostic imaging to screen for cancer. On my drive home from work that same day I called my dad and we spoke for a good 40 minutes. I was asking probing questions to ascertain how things had unfolded. I needed to get a better understanding of what had transpired so I could form my best wild ass guess as to what we were looking at. The conversation ended with me asking, “Daddy, do you need help?” “No”, he paused before continuing, “I don’t think so, but my legs are a little weak.” This was on a Wednesday.

My dad told me they’d have the pet scan results on Friday. So, I’m driving to work the next morning on Thursday and I think to myself, don’t borrow trouble. Wait till Friday to call him. At times, I can tend to be a worrier, it’s a default setting of my operating system. I’ve learned to frame things to help keep my anxiety at bay. However, that default setting of mine kicked in after a few minutes. As I continued down the highway I thought, let me just check in and see how he’s doing. This turned out to be prescient. I called his house. There’s no answer. After a few minutes I try his cell phone. Same thing, no answer. I repeated this a few more times on my drive into the office. Now I’m very concerned.

When I get to work I text my sister Liz to see if she can see where he is. She’s got all of our whereabouts locked down in her phone. She sees he’s at home. “He might’ve just left his cellphone in the car”, she theorizes. “He does that sometimes”, she says. I text her that he mentioned his legs were weak the night before. I ask, “what if he fell?” With that, the two of us are off to the races. What do we do, who do we call? A cursory internet search of how to conduct a welfare check on an elderly family member in Sarasota ensued. The answer? You contact the Sherrif’s office.

Liz got in touch with them and in less than thirty minutes they were at his house. A female police officer called my sister, and they were speaking to her as they knocked on his door. The officer told Liz, we hear him. He’s alive! My father was on the floor of his bedroom but couldn’t get up. The police figured out how to get in his house and had him transported to the hospital. He didn’t think he needed to go, but they easily talked him into it. They rationalized with him. Your daughters are worried; it doesn’t hurt to get checked out.

Turns out he hadn’t fallen. He was very cold in the middle of the night and got out of bed to tuck in his covers. But when he tried to get up from the floor to get back into bed he couldn’t, his body didn’t have the strength. Turns out, he had a fever because he also had pneumonia. That’s why he was so cold. It was further exacerbated by his yet to be diagnosed lung cancer. All resulting in low oxygenation throughout his body. He likely spent somewhere between 10 - 12 hours, with periodic rest breaks, trying to get up off the floor to no avail.

I flew to Florida within a couple of days to best navigate whatever the hell was coming at us next. Our father needed an advocate and if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s raise my voice for people I love. I spent about 12 hours a day with my dad, sitting at his bedside, speaking with nurses and doctors working on some sort of path forward. To help pass the time I worked on my laptop, and we watched marathons of Impractical Jokers on tv. My dad cracked up as he watched it and I enjoyed watching him smile and laugh. There was almost an innocence, a beautiful purity to it.

He was stable for the four days I was alone with him. It’s why I felt comfortable leaving him for a couple of hours to pick up my sister Liz from the airport in Tampa that Wednesday afternoon. But by the time we returned to the hospital, all hell was breaking loose.

• “What took you so long?”

That’s what my dad sarcastically said to Liz upon her arrival in the midst of his respiratory distress. His young nurse said she was checking on him when she noticed his decompensated oxygenation. My father and sister continue to banter with one another as more nurses and doctors quietly begin to enter his room. By the way, that’s never a good sign. I notice how pale he is. He’s also shaking, as in shivering. I notice his shoulder is exposed and massage it with my hands in an attempt to warm him up. “Oh, not with those cold hands” he barks at me. He’s in a legit medical emergency and he’s still got jokes. Oh, Manning.

Long story short, we are in for an arduous night. It begins with our dad being whisked away to ICU, receiving critical care with added intravenous lines, heavy-duty drugs, and consistent monitoring to make quick adjustments in an attempt to stabilize him. We call Christine in Sicily and Aunt Lorraine in New York to let them know of the dire circumstances. The evening ends with Elizabeth and I summoning a priest to perform anointing of the sick, just in case the unthinkable happens. Then we head back to our dad’s house to get some rest. Fortunately, there’s a phenomenal team taking care of him in the Intensive Care Unit. Early the next morning I receive a phone call from the hospital.

• “I think we’ve turned a corner.”

Spoken in the delightful lilt of an English accent. That’s Andy, the ICU nurse who hadn’t left my dad’s side since he arrived in ICU. He told me how my dad’s body had responded to treatment and he was much more stable than when he came in the evening before. As his progress continued, they’d gradually step back on some of the meds and interventions as they had already begun doing. Since he had pneumonia and presumed lung cancer, his need for supplemental oxygen never abated so the nasal canula became a part of him, like another appendage. Liz and I were relieved and headed up to the hospital to spend the day with our dad.

I would only be there a couple more days before I had to head back home. While he was still in ICU, I was pleased to see his innate resilience at work in spite of everything his body had endured. He was not out of the woods by any means, but a lesser man would’ve died the night before. His grit is made of spit and vinegar. Echoing through my mind was the first line of one of my dad’s favorite poems by Dylan Thomas, “do not go gentle into that good night”. Manning was putting up a fight; our spirits were buoyed.

• Oh, no; that’s vintage Manning.

That was my response to the ICU doctor the morning before I caught my afternoon flight back to Houston. All the while I had been with my dad in the hospital, he had been so gentle and acquiescent to everyone around him. Over the last twenty years or so, age had definitely mellowed him, and it was on full display. He was polite, pleasant, and compliant with nurses and doctors alike.

This particular morning the ICU doctor approached me and my sister to share with us their concerns he might’ve had some sort of personality change overnight. I asked, “why do you say that?” Apparently, they had asked him a few questions, and his responses were not what they anticipated. “Well, what did you ask him?” I questioned.

Do you know where you are?

My dad’s response, “I know I’m alone here in this hospital bed.”

Do you know how many children you have?

My dad responded, “Why would you ask me that?”

That’s when I tell the doctor, that’s not a personality change, quite the contrary. “Oh, no; that’s vintage Manning.” You see, he knew you were giving him a competency test, and he wasn’t going to play along. Sweetie, he may be down, but he is by no means out. How dare you give Manning Edmonds a competency test. Who the hell do you think you are? None of that was verbally spoken, but I hear it loud and clear in my dad’s answers. Boy, do I hear it. And I am here for it! I love it.

Another exchange that showcased his, let’s call it the will to live, was directed squarely at me. I was explaining to him why he shouldn’t put up a struggle when they attempted to suction his secretions. I was explaining, “your oxygenation is improving, we want to keep going in that direction, you’re making progress, etc., etc., etc. …” when he interrupted me.

“Eileen …”

“Yes, Daddy.”

(I’m waiting, thinking he’s about to say something profound. I might’ve convinced him to put up with the pain helping his lungs to clear up. I think I’ve gotten through to him …)

“Shut the fuck up”

“Oh! Okay, Daddy.”

I take a step back from his bedside as I was responding. But even this pleased me. He’s feisty! That’s beneficial to sustain life. And also, he’s not wrong. I should’ve just shut the fuck up. If I had endured what he had I don’t think I’d have much patience for anyone trying to persuade me to dig deeper. Oh no, don’t just screw off, screw ALL the way off.

Liz drives me to the airport, and I feel somewhat better about his prospects. She’ll be looking out for him and consult with his doctors. She’ll keep us apprised of any developments. And our dad is in this game of staying alive. A couple of days later he’s discharged from ICU back to his previous room in the hospital.

Elizabeth does an admirable job for almost two weeks before Christine arrives, and they sit at his bedside together. While he’s not in any pain and can carry on conversationally, his health circumstances do not get any better. They continue to deteriorate and on September 20 our dad signs the papers to begin hospice. He dies two days later.

My son Mateo and I already had flights booked to Sarasota for the following day. When he dies, I call Christine and ask her, what do I do now? She quickly admonishes me, “you come, you still come.” It was important for my sisters and I to be together at this time. We’ve experienced a lot in our lives. Honey, this ain’t no Ozzie and Harriet.

• Eileen, we’re orphans.

My sister Christine, glass of wine in hand, turns to look at me as she dryly delivers these words. There’s something obviously sad, but also surprisingly hysterical, about my 60-year-old sister saying this to me. This sarcastic kismet is our coping mechanism when confronted with emotional difficulty. Attending our mother’s wake some 30+ years earlier we snark, “this is the icing on the cake that is our life.” We share inappropriate remarks in trying times and it can induce smirking. What can I say, it’s our sibling superpower.

• He gets an A+ in dying.

I tell Christine this as I highlight the evidence. Our dad’s sudden hospitalization and death spanned 3 1/2 brief weeks. It gave us just the right amount of time to wrap our heads around the thought of losing him. There was no prolonged illness that devolved over years. Relatively speaking, we were spared in some way by not having to witness that. We saw enough in that short period, but it was weeks instead of months or years. I’ve repeated this multiple times; he was healthy and active until he wasn’t. When the time came, he didn’t fuck around, he got right to the business of dying.

My dad was my father my whole life. I know this isn’t a revelatory statement. But you’d think there wasn’t anything new for me to learn about him. You’d be wrong. At the end of his funeral service family members were invited to come up to the podium and speak if they felt so inclined. There was a lot of new information I learned.

• Sometimes Manning would pick me up on Friday nights.

Our cousin Michael was my dad’s godson. Michael was reflecting on the times he and his brothers would come out to visit our family on the island. When they planned to come over on a Saturday, my dad would swing by their house and pick up Michael early on Friday nights so he could spend more time with him.

This is in the seventies, long before anyone coined the phrase “quality time”. Pretty sure I audibly gasped because I was struck by how ahead of his time he was. His tough exterior could often mask his genuine feelings locked inside. He loved deeply; he just wasn’t apt to show it.

• It was my job to hold up his book.

That was our cousin Richard’s recollection from their childhood. As my father got ready to head out the door, getting dressed, gathering his belongings for school, Richard would hold his book open for him so our dad could continue reading. Have you ever heard of using your younger cousin essentially as a human book holder? Or someone so maniacally crazy about reading? How ingenious.

• I was 14 when Manning was selected for the Tactical Patrol Force.

Our Uncle Lawrence shared this story. The entire family was proud of the fact that my dad was chosen for this elite unit of the NYPD. At that time, it was comprised of the creme de la creme in the police academy. I think Lawrence mentioned he was 14 years old at the time.

In some sense, you can say this impacted the trajectory of Lawrence’s life and his family. Lawrence went on to become a Sergeant with the Connecticut State Troopers. His daughter Dawn was recently promoted to Lieutenant as a Connecticut State Trooper and his son Matthew just joined a local police department in Connecticut. As Lawrence spoke, I thought about the ripple a rock makes when it’s thrown into the water. That’s what my dad had created, a good and moral ripple for protecting and serving.

• We were here first.

These were the words of my Aunt Lorraine, my dad’s sister. She was referring to the house in Jackson Heights where they spent much of their childhood. Their parents divorced when they were young and they were raised by their Irish grandmother Helen. They lived in that home before their cousins, affectionately known as the Sweeney boys, came along and were raised in that very same house together. Everyone who grew up there knew they were loved. Everyone who visited knew they were welcomed. Sometimes you don’t need words, you just know something because you feel it. It’s palpable.

These seemingly small exchanges sustained me through this emotionally difficult time. I call forward these remembrances, so I don’t lose sight of the forest for the trees. To not get pulled down into an abyss of sadness and depression. I feel my feelings and let them come. They help me process, move through them, and gain a better understanding of my experience.

The day after my dad signed himself into hospice, he received a bedside ceremony in recognition of his service as a veteran. I asked my sisters to record it so we could witness it, too. Once they sent us the video, I realized my dad probably wasn’t going to be here when my son Mateo and I flew in on Tuesday.

So, I called to speak with my dad. I asked Elizabeth to put me on speaker so I could talk to him. I said, “Hi Daddy, I just wanted to let you know I love you so much. And I’m so proud to be your daughter. I love you so much.” I tried not to cry but I couldn’t help but get choked up. I had to hope and pray he heard me.

Sure enough, our dad passed away early Monday evening. Mateo and I arrived Tuesday afternoon. We went out to dinner that same night with my sisters and brother in-law doing what we do best. Rehashing everything, sharing stories, mostly laughing, and occasionally tearing up. I ask them, “do you think he heard me when I called?”

Christine is emphatic, “of course, of course he did.” And Liz nods in agreement.

I’m surprised at their confidence. “What do you mean, how could you tell?”

Christine goes, “because we heard him, he said it back.”

I say, “What do you mean? He said what back?”

I love you so much.