It's thirteen days until the first anniversary of my father's death from inoperable brain cancer. Which means that today marks the anniversary of the day my father's mind finally shattered forever. It was a terrible day for him of course. For me, it was arguably the worst single day of my life. (And that's saying something)
I left my home across the valley early that day. It was cold, and the forecast called for snow by the late afternoon. I was going to stop first at the little prefab casita Dad had had delivered the year before, where he lived in reasonable if much downsized comfort. It was at the end of the gravel driveway to the older, bigger house I'd been working on for months to make habitable again. Years of neglect had taken a toll on the place. The plan was for me and my family to move in ASAP. So that I could be there all the time for my father. I'd worked as a hospice caregiver for many years, and felt equal to the task.
I knew something was very wrong the moment I arrived.
A car belonging to one of Dad's church buddies was just leaving. He stopped, got out, and spoke to me. Warning me that there were loud noises coming from inside. That the poor dog was huddled behind the well shed, clearly terrified. That my dad would not open the door. The man followed me as I walked up and forced my way in.
The door wasn't locked. It was blocked, inside and out, by heaps of plastic trash bags piled up. Filled with clothes, food, dishes, photo albums. Keepsakes and a dulcimer he'd made himself, years before, for my mother. Once inside we found my dad on the floor. Tearing at the carpet with his bare hands. The phone had been ripped out of the wall; Dad's friend stepped outside to use his cellphone to call my brother down in Cave Creek. And to call 911.
My brother arrived in remarkably short time, considering how he lives over a hundred miles away. The county Sheriff's deputies came, took a look, and left saying that there was nothing they could do unless Dad actually tried to hurt himself or someone else. The three of us- myself, my brother, and Dad's friend, spent long hours trying to calm my father. To get him to stop wrecking his house.
I held his hand and pleaded with him to look at me, to see me. Hear me tell him that I loved him. He wrenched his hand away saying "you're not here, you're not here" his voice rising until he was screaming. YOU ARE NOT HERE.
And suddenly, I wasn't. Something broke in me that day. My brother, with great gentleness, told me to go home. I was exhausted, and my presence was only making Dad act out more. So I did. I got in my car and drove home.
Shortly after I left Dad decided to walk down the dirt road and out into the high desert beyond. Barefoot. In the dead of winter, as the sun was setting. My brother called the Sheriff's department again. This time they stayed, tried to talk Dad into going back inside, and when Dad took a swing at one of them, they called for an ambulance. My dad spent the next two days in the hospital.
I spent those two days clearing out the wreckage, making space for the hospital bed we'd rent for him. Making the place decent for the hospice nurses when they came.
I can't believe it's been a year.