The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

A couple of months ago Daddy called my brothers and me together at the place my parents plan to retire to let us know that the doctors were pretty sure  he had pancreatic cancer. They did a surgery to check things out and said - no cancer, but other problems... which they fixed. Unfortunately, the solution caused new problems that had to be fixed. Which led to more tests and more revelations. This continued for several long, hard weeks. Last week my brothers and I were called together by Daddy for the second time in a short time. This time we were in a hospital room. Daddy looking incredibly frail - a lot like our grandfather had near the end of his life. He was on some serious pain medications and sometimes didn't make much sense but at others he was very clear. Once we were all there he was ready to talk to us again - to tell us he had colon cancer (and probably it was elsewhere in his body), but he didn't want any treatment. He wanted to go out on his own terms, and we weren't going to change his mind.

Now, we all know Pops is a very stubborn old man so we didn't even try. We knew we'd be wasting our breath. Only his brother (another stubborn old man) even tried to "talk some sense into him". Daddy gave the three of us instructions for when he was gone: to respect our mother (duh, you don't ever cross that line), to help our mother in any way she needed us (again, duh, of course), and to make sure he wasn't buried next to our grandmother (his mother-in-law) - his attempt to lighten the moment since that had been a family joke even before my grandmother passed away. They had a very interesting love/hate relationship.

In the spirit of Charles Dickens, that weekend was the best of times and the worst of times. Daddy is dying. He may not even be with us for Christmas which is only a few weeks away. The thought of life without this incredibly grouchy, incredibly generous man was almost more than I could bear. My mother was strong. But then, she's always strong. She's an optimist. Daddy's a pessimist who claims to be a realist - they complement each other. It was so hard to process it all.

In the next 36 hours ALL of my aunts and uncles came into that hospital room. It was phenomenal. Even Daddy's brother, whom I haven't seen in years was there - being a bossy big brother and a loving uncle. Bartons are cranky. Bartons are opinionated. Bartons don't show emotion. Bartons argue for sport. And things were the same as always between them, but things were different. There were expressions of love that I have never seen before. There were discussions (arguments) about Daddy being selfish in his decision to "give up". It was amazing to see those two brothers interact while watching my own brothers and me do the same types of things. And my mother's brothers were also there for a different kind of familial interaction. We laughed, and we cried, but we were together. A family that loves each other but has let the busy-ness of life get in the way of being together regularly. We found our way back to each other. It was glorious. 

As my brother and I left to head back to Austin, Daddy kissed me and said he loved me... I don't know when or if that has ever happened before. Definitely not any time in my adult life. Daddy was dying, and I was feeling warm and happy. I'm not sure I'm going to be okay with this, but I can at least see some good coming from it already.