Nearly 13 years ago on the morning
of January 21st 2001, I went to visit my dad, Raymond “Butch” Schroyer
in the Dayton Heart Hospital. He had undergone surgery and was going on his
third day of recovery. I worked second shift at the time and had been dropping
in on him each day. So seeing him with a trach tube in his throat and all
manner of IV lines running from his hands and arms no longer surprised me.
Because of the tube and the pain it
caused, it wasn’t in his best interest to talk, so I took the lead on the
conversation while he listened. About
halfway through the visit, he grabbed a paper and pen from the bedside table.
He scrawled swiftly and handed me
the note. There was just one word: HURTS.
When he was certain that I had read it, he pointed to his neck. I hit the call
button for the nurse and got a doctor instead.
When I asked about removing the
trach, the doctor explained that it would need to stay in for at least another
day. My dad heard this, reactively he winced,
then scribbled on his paper again before
turning it to us. THIRSTY. My father cocked
a thumb at himself.
The doctor promised a nurse would
be in, before exiting hastily.
Another half hour passed and I talked
at him about whatever trivial items came to mind. When I told him I had to
leave for work, he quickly picked up his pen, and folded over the paper to a
fresh side. Hurriedly he wrote, and just as quickly, turned the paper around
for me to see one last time. On it was another single word. PROUD. As before, when he knew I had
read it, I looked up at him and he simply pointed at me and smiled. He pressed
the note into my palm. Before leaving, I kissed him on the forehead for the
last time. When I had gotten safely out of the room, I was able to let myself
cry, and not surprisingly tears came in a flood.
As you might’ve guessed later that
morning, I received a phone call that my father passed away due to
complications from the triple bypass he had underwent three days previously. He
was 59 years old, I hadn’t even turned 21. He never got the chance to buy me a
shot for my birthday.
Of course, he missed a great deal
of other events in my life. Things that I assumed as my dad he would be there
to see or at least hear about; landing my first real job, my wedding, quitting my
first real job, moving across country, moving across the desert, starting at
the bank, my divorce, chasing the wrong women, nearly getting laid off, meeting
friends that have become my family, seeing Gretchen, and meeting the right
woman. Along with a million other events varying in scope and significance that
in my naivety I took for granted he’d be present. At the time I never considered he wouldn’t be around
to congratulate me following my successes, and to tell me to pick myself back
up and try again when I failed.
I still have that note, tucked away
in an old shoe box, nestled among other memories. There was a time when I’d dig
it out and look it over, but I haven’t done that for many years. No longer do I
need to because I came to know every fold, every crease, every curve of
letters, and every jagged edge where it hurt him to sit up and write. The thing
is, I never looked at it because it reinforced the fact that my father was
proud of me, I knew that long before my dad wound up in the hospital. It was a
way to hold on. Only after memorizing that note- its every facet- I realized
that I have a treasure trove of memories of my father. And that’s what’s worth
holding onto.
