7 Days

I typically use this blog as a fun way to talk about things my family and I are doing, where we are, and what’s going on in our lives. I generally try not to inject many personal circumstances or difficulties, mostly because I want the blog to be a fun place for you to come visit, read about us, and come back to in the future. But, for a variety of reasons, this post will be my first exception to that rule.

This post is long, and I forgive anyone who has neither the time nor patience to read it. As always, I ramble.

As many of you know, on November 15th at 0341, Melissa and I welcomed our daughter, Josie Farah, into the world as the latest addition to the Chockley family. At about 19 inches long and around 7 lbs, she was – and is – a joy. Melissa’s labor and delivery was great, and we were out of the hospital early on the morning of the 16th. Ella was stoked to have a little sister, and showered her with affection. It was one of my great privileges in life to introduce my daughter to her little sister. I talked to my dad on the phone while we were in the hospital and he was overjoyed. When he heard the news, he apparently exclaimed “Bingo!” and told me on the phone that that was what he would call her. All was right in the world.

Then, on the way home from picking up Ella at a friend’s house on Sunday night, my brother called to tell me that my dad had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. From the way things sounded, he was in a great deal of pain, but a week’s worth of antibiotics and some rest would do wonders. I hung up and slept well that night.

Since around 15 August, dad had been suffering from a brain tumor; for those nerds, it was a glioblastoma multiforme grade IV. In a nutshell, it was bad news – a terminal diagnosis. After debulking the tumor in August, doctors told dad that with radiation and chemo, he would live between 7 and 9 months. He lived 3. The initial surgery took dad from the agile, rambunctious person he always had been, and left him crippled. A week of physical therapy left us with hope dad would walk again, but a staff infection and what we believe was a subsequent stroke permanently left him in a wheelchair. He could briefly stand with assistance to get in the shower, but other than that, the mobile dad I had always known was gone.

In many respects, he was mentally the same person he had always been. The hallmarks of his personality remained - fiery temper, keen wit, sarcasm, and above all, a love that was simply unsurpassed. He was visibly sad that he was dying, and wanted to spend as much time with his family as possible.

The Navy was accommodating enough to find a job for me in Washington DC, and I moved home in early October. Thanks to that fast action, I was able to spend more than two weeks by my dad at his bedside – weeks that I would never have had – and was able to hold his hand when he passed. Words alone cannot express the gratitude I feel for the U.S. Navy Judge Advocate General’s Corp, the Regional Legal Service Office in Naples, and the staff and National Naval Medical Center Bethesda. If he could, my dad would thank you too.

Monday the 17th was a good day. I stayed home, made a long trip to Ikea with Ella, and unpacked the house some more. Contrary to my normal habit of calling dad every evening around 1900, I did not speak to him that day – my wristwatch was set to go off every evening at that time as a reminder. On that night, my stepmom indicated that dad was probably too tired to speak, so I elected to wait. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just passed on the last opportunity to ever speak with my father on the phone. I next heard from my stepmom the following morning.

When I spoke to her on Tuesday, it was clear something was wrong. The pneumonia medication was not working, and dad’s breathing was quickly deteriorating. The tumor, it seemed, had spread to the brain stem. She was calling the family in.

We had gone through this process before, and dad had pulled through it. I was inclined to stay with Melissa and the new baby until I knew something further.. I hold told dad my goodbyes every time I left, and from the sound of things, he wasn’t waking much. After some prodding by friends and family, I ended up deciding to get on a plane. I’ll always be glad I did.

When I arrived in Tennessee around midnight, dad was in bad shape. Over the course of the next 12 hours, he sat up in bed several times. I specifically remember him sitting up in bed at one point – when he woke, he always wanted to sit up, despite his heavy lean to the left. He was heavy enough that I had to crawl completely into bed with him to use my legs and arms to hold him up while still positioning myself in such a way to look at him in the face. On this occasion, he clearly recognized me, knew that I was back from DC, smiled, and said “I love you.” I think it was the last full sentence he ever spoke.

Before falling back into another long, deep sleep, he leaned forward for a hug. He lifted his arm as much as he could, clearly waiting for me to wrap it around my neck the rest of the way. He kissed me on the lips and neck about 20 times. He’d done it before; it was as if he was trying to get in all the kisses he should have had if his life was as long as it should have been.

My stepmom – a nurse by profession - in her wisdom and grace, decided on Wednesday morning that my dad would not die in a hospital. We unhooked the machines and went home. I rode in the back of the ambulance and held dad’s hand.

He woke up at home, and was as stubborn as always, even in his reduced state. From his shrugs and movements, we deciphered that he wanted to sit in his wheel chair, which we helped him into. He was 14 hours from death, but still wanted to sit up and be with us. I will never forget that man’s interminable desire to just “be here.”

The next morning, my stepmother woke us to tell us the time was neigh. As a former hospice nurse, she knew the telltale signs. My dad lived 2 more hours. We were with him the whole time, and his passing was very peaceful. I never really knew what that meant until I saw it for myself. It’s still numbing even to type it.

It was November 20th, five days after Josie was born. His funeral was two days later, exactly one week after Josie’s arrival.

The core of my father remained throughout his illness. Through our visits and discussions those final months, I was able to convey to and learn many things about my father. When the selfishness and pride of independence is taken from you, you learn to depend on people in ways never before imaginable. The depth of love experienced and shown in those circumstances is raw and pure; there is no option but to serve and rely on the ones you love. It peels away all the layers of a persona other than the one that is the most true “you.” I didn’t need that process to know that I loved my dad, but it certainly underscored what I already knew.

My father was my very best friend in the world. He was my hero, and for many years, he was the one person I knew would be there for me when no one else might. Age has added many more people to that list for me, which, in a way, makes his passing a little easier. But he was still always number one on the list.

He loved his granddaughters. He and I were both sad that he would not be able to see them grow up, and teach them and love them the way he did his children. This probably hurts me the most. I know all the psychological salves we use to temper this fact (for example “you’ll pass on those things to your children for him,”), but this doesn’t really help me very much. I want my dad here - to teach them himself - and I just can’t get over it.

Being away from Tennessee and in DC with a family of my own helps a great deal. Grief would eat me alive if I lived back home. I’m thankful for a God with enough vision to put me in a place in life – both circumstantially and physically - that helps me deal with the loss, and I say a special prayer at night for those in my family that are not blessed with the same luxury.

I will remember my dad I think in ways that most children do not. That’s not to say that there’s never been a son closer to his father – my brother was himself equally close to my dad – but it is to say that I’m certain that his memory and my missing him will not soon – or maybe ever – pass. I’m not sure if this says more about our relationship or just him in general. Regardless, I think it’s safe to say that he was just loved more than most.

Soon I will erase the chime on my watch that goes off every evening at 1900. My memory of dad is so invasive and deep that a simple dinging wristwatch once a day gives it short-billing. I will erase it. Just not yet. :-)

To say that I appreciate everyone’s’ kind sympathies, thoughts, and prayers during the last few days goes without saying. As silly as it sounds, knowing that other people are here, talking with them, and sharing my difficulties reminds me that me that carrying on with this life is the most important tribute I can pay my dad. Josie’s arrival also helps: a cosmic reminder of life’s constant cycles. My thanks go out to Facebook for giving everyone an outlet to reach out to me, and my thanks again to everyone who reached out for the sentiments they posted there.

So, as life continues and as years pass, I’m not sure how those 7 days will be remembered. God created this world in 7 days, and he took just as long to turn mine upside down. I pray his plan with the later will play-out with the same precision as the former, and my faith tells me it will. I just wish I knew how.

Semper Fi, dad. I love you. You can hug Josie in heaven.

- pac