If I Could Change One Thing From My Past . . .

My cousin posted a note on facebook about things she had done, or not done, in her past that she would change if she could.  She didn't tag me in the note, but I read it nonetheless.  Instead of trying to cut and  paste a long response there, I decided to write about it here.

There are very few things in life that I would go back and change but three specific ones come to mind.

1.  I had a dear friend from high school, who shall remain nameless, who I know relied upon me to be a strength and support.  In more specific terms, to be a good example.  She came to visit me while I was single and living in Las Vegas.  My life choices were not the best at that time, and though I would not actually change those "mistakes" I would change that night on January 1, 1999, when we went out.  I will forever feel partially responsible for the heartache that immediately followed that night.  She relied on me to be a good example; and I wasn't.  In fact, I was a horrible example.  I know her choices thereafter were hers; but I also believe that night was pivotal in her life and "but for my example" her choices would have been different. 

2.    About a week before my dad died I was sitting with him in his workroom/bedroom.  We were sitting on his bed, a fouton.  He looked at me and said, "listen."  He then stopped talking, slightly opened his mouth and a strange sound, which I can't even describe, came from his throat.  It seemed like it went on forever and panic struck me.  Did he stop breathing?  This couldn't be what he meant when he said, "listen."  I had expected him to impart some wisdom.  By then I was certain that dad had a lot to share (wisdom that is) and I was eager to hear every word he said.  But no wisdom came forth, just his noise.  This very odd noise.  I looked at him and said, "stop."  He didnt' stop. The panic set in further.  Should I call mom in?  Do we need to call 911?  "You are scaring me," I said.  The noise stopped and he spoke.  Oddly, I don't remember what he said; I was just grateful he could speak.  The panic dissipated.

I believe it was the next day that he saw a doctor and was put on oxygen.  Apparently he had a large tumor encroaching upon his tracheal and cutting off his breathing.  This tumor would take his life in a matter of days.  We didn't know it then, but it became apparent fast.  My regret related to this is two fold. 

The night before my father passed I laid with him in his room.  He looked different.  I can't explain exactly what it was, but I knew it was different.  I had this feeling that I should tell him it was okay.  Okay to die that is.  My grandfather (my mother's dad) had died 9 days earlier.  I had noticed a change in dad since then.  Hindsight has convinced me that dad had willed his life prolonged until he knew that we could survive his death.  I can't fully explain the spirit(s) that filled the room when my grandpa died, but I knew my dad experienced it in a way that the rest of us there didn't.  We survived grandpa's death and though I'm not sure timing dad's death to be so close to my mother's father's was such a good idea, it always seemed to me that there was a purpose in it.  My theories may very well be wrong, but I accept them nonetheless.  I felt this the night before he died.  And yet, I was afraid.  Afraid to tell him what I felt so strongy in my heart. 

I know my dad didn't need to hear me say it was okay to die.  By that time I know he had reconciled with the fact that he would not live a long life.  He would die a month after his 47th birthday.  There were many joys of life that he would miss.  Nonetheless, for some reason I can't explain, I regret that I didn't tell him what I knew in my heart.  It was okay for him to die.

Even knowing all this, it came as a big surprise to me when, the next afternoon, my mom called and said that dad was being kept the night in the hospital due to his breathing.  After three years of battling cancer, the doctors had finally settled on the fact that dad's life was limited; to about two months.  Mom was going to schedule for Meredith to fly in; would I be willing to pick her up at the airport.  Of course.  I also told her I would be right there and she said, "stay, he will be here when you get off work."  An hour later she called and said that he was doing worse, they now gave him only about 2 weeks.  She was trying to get Meredith in that weekend, can I pick her up tomorrow.  "Yes," I replied; and, "I'm on my way home now." 
"Stay," she insisted.  "He will still be here when you get off work."  An hour later she called and said he was even worse.  They did not expect him to survive the weekend.  She was trying to get a hold of Meredith to come in that night.  Again, I said I would leave work immediately.  "Stay, he will be here when you get home."  An hour later, and ten minutes before I got off work, my mother called again.  My dad had just passed.

I have mixed feelings of regret for not leaving work to see him; to say good-bye.  Seventeen years later and I am still brought to tears when I recall this night.  Yet, though I regret not going, I have an overwhelming sense that I wasn't meant to be there when he died.  In the same instant that I regret not being there, I am filled with a warmth that tells me it didn't matter.  That my presence there wasn't needed by him, by my family, or for myself.  My faith that the night before wasn't the last time I would ever see him, and that I had been frequent in telling him I loved him, was enough for now.  There was nothing to regret.  Nonetheless, when I remember those words, "he's gone" in the last call I received.  My heart sinks and I feel empty, why wasn't I there?

I am grateful for the knowledge that families are divinly designed to be eternal.  Each time I have brought a child into this world I have know that they knew my father before they came to join this life with me.  I know that though they lose that memory before they can speak it to me; my father touched their hearts before I had the chance to hear them beat.  What a miracle that is!  And with that knowledge, there is little room for regret.