Our Last Dance

I’ve been putting this off for quite some time now and I know why. 
I’m afraid that once it’s out there, part of it will leave me and be gone forever. Typing it all out and seeing those words so starkly on paper is gut wrenching because embedded in this story is my greatest regret. One that I don’t deserve to be forgiven for. The suffering of that night far exceeds the pain I deserve. I’ll get there, but for now I will start at the beginning.

My father was sick. He was sick for years. His decline started around 2012 when he started to lose weight. He had a surgery that came with complications. Complications that became more and more complicated as time passed. He had pain in his stomach. The left side. He touched it on occasion but refused to acknowledge it. I forced appointments, consultations and procedures on him. No answers. Just ‘follow-ups’ and bullshit antibiotics. 

I loved having him over. We laughed a lot and talked even more. It was a Wednesday. I cooked as sounds of the home permeated. Walking through the door, he looked worse than ever. His skin translucent, sweat beading on his hairline. Clammy and confused, it was about 20 minutes before he had a seizure. The hospital admitted him and the next day I showed up.


“I am here to see my father, Larry Alexander who was just admitted”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the hospital is not allowing visitors at this time due to Covid.”
“No, I don’t think you’re hearing me. My father is here and I am here to see him. I will be seeing him today.”
“Again, ma’am, there are no visitors allowed.”
“OK, let me state this plainly, I will be sitting just there, in the waiting area, and every 15 minutes, I will come back up to this desk and ask to see my father. I will do so again and again until I am forcibly removed from this venue.


And that is exactly what I did. For an hour and a half, give or take, until someone with a lot of keys and a very contemptuous stare came barreling in my direction, leaned down and whispered, “you have 15 minutes”

I went up to see him, leaned down to kiss his forehead all I can remember is that he smelled differently. Not bad. Just different, and I knew this was it. The next day at work, he called me.

“Rock, they think I have cancer.”
“Do they think you have cancer, or do they know?” 
“I don’t… Rock, I don’t know.” stuttering the words as if speaking with a child.

I told him to put me on the phone with the doctor the next time he came in. A couple hours later, he did. I listened. Cancer. Pancreatic. 3-6 months.

The phone went back to my father and he had very little to say, neither of us did. Wheeled out by a nurse, he climbed in my Volkswagen. I didn’t watch. I couldn’t. I waited a moment. I have never been shy and neither has he. Wasn’t about to start now. “Homie, we’ve got 3 months left. Let’s figure out what the fuck we are going to do with it.” There was no response but rather a silent hum of relief. We were peaceful in knowing that there was an answer. A deadly one, but an answer nonetheless. I brought him home, quit my job and climbed into bed with him. We were doing this together, damnit. 

It wasn’t long before he closed his eyes for the last time. His peaceful coma being a silent gift. I talked to him. Constantly. Knowing he was still in there. I made jokes, played music that we both loved, favorite shows on a low volume the background. Mostly though, there was just silence. That was his favorite. It’s mine, too. 

I apologize to my father for what I did next. I do so regularly in silence, praying I never receive forgiveness. 

I ensured that Hospice nurses provided round the clock care. To this day, I fail to understand how they manage to go from home to home, sitting with dying people and loved ones, providing comfort shrouded in stillness. It’s uncanny. 

And then she arrived. The nurse who got him out of bed. 

She danced with him. 

Music gently filled the space as he groaned. The first noise he had made in weeks. I know it felt so good to him to finally be out of bed. I remember the pitch he let out, knowing he felt relief. She held him up and moved him and laughed. She spoke to him as though he was an active participant in their lovely encounter. 

They danced and he loved it. I loved it more. 

The next nurse on shift was not as attentive. She fell asleep in her chair next to my father’s bed which, in hindsight, is totally understandable. He was as stable as he could be and had no immediate needs at the time.

I fired her. 

I told her to ‘get the fuck out’ as my father deserved nothing but the best of care and if this dumb bitch was going to disrespect him by not providing that care, she could simply get fucked. 

And so she did. 
She left.

There it is. My biggest regret. As if this was about me at all. I forced the one person who could properly care for my father out the door. My intentions were to have another nurse come in. I called the ‘hotline’ and was told repeatedly that no nurses were available. 
The worst night of my life ensued. Nobody came. We were alone and it was entirely my doing. Darkness fell, and my father moved on his own for the first time in weeks. I realized that he was trying to get out of bed. 


My father wanted to dance again. 


I couldn’t hold him up. I was too frail and didn’t know how so I spent the night, what felt like years, pulling him back and holding him down sobbing and apologizing to him that I couldn’t dance with him. 
I spent hours pulling him back into discomfort. My own father. 

You know, it just hit me…right now in this moment I am realizing that I kept us from having our very last dance together. 
My god. Dad, I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I failed you. I am sorry that I let that nurse go. I am sorry that I couldn’t hold you when you needed me most and what is killing me most is this: 

I can’t remember our last dance.