|
||||||||
 |
 You have receved a note from... The Childrens' Helth Assosiation. Dear Parent, we have notiste you have suger cones (for ice cream) annd ice cream + that other stuff they use at the Creamery that makes you ice cream cones have a chocolate shell. FEED YOUR KIDS!!  email this post...Category: Cameron, Food, Gabby, Gabby's Artwork, The "J" / Comments: Be the first... My friends Charlotte and Tobin have ordered this mural to put on the wall of their son’s room. Tobin sent it to me, saying, “Based on the events of the last weeks, I read this and completely lost my shit. So what did I need to do, mail it to you. It’s all true, Julie. Hang in there.”
Friday, January 13, I called my parents’ house in the morning, just to check in, as usual. “How are things?” I asked. “Um, okay,” my mother answered. “We’re going to see the doctor this morning; Dad’s having a hard time catching his breath.” I would learn later that this was the understatement of the year. Dad was admitted to the hospital for some oxygen, and another blood transfusion, and “to get a jump on his recovery” as we were told. He was experiencing kidney issues, but everyone said he would overcome it. We visited him Friday evening and he was in pretty high spirits– chatty, feeling better. We talked about how the chair he’d been sitting in could probably be improved upon, and discussed a couple of options for different chairs. (Dad thought all of these options were bullshit, by the way.) My niece, Caitlin, was scheduled to visit a college the next morning, and both Mom and Dad told Betsy to go ahead and go. “I’ll come tomorrow around lunchtime,” I told my mom. Then I went home and told Dave that Dad was doing better and feeling pretty good. This was the last day of my life that I had a dad who wasn’t dying. Saturday, January 14: I was on the phone with my friend Jennie, telling her about the kidney thing and literally telling her “But they say he’s going to be okay,” when I got a text from my mom. It was garbled, as though she had texted it in a panic, and I got off with Jennie and called her immediately. Everything had changed, my mom told me through a fog of tears. Call everyone, get them to the hospital right now. So, in my own fog of tears, I called my siblings. I told Betsy, already 2 hours away, to come back immediately. I told Dave I would call him later. We all headed to the hospital, in shock and disbelief. When Jill and I arrived, Mikey had been there for awhile already and knew the score: the short, short version was that Dad’s kidneys would not recover. I tried to keep it together as I walked into the room and took Dad’s hand. “Hi, Dad,” I said, and he smiled at me peacefully. “Do you understand?” he asked me, and I started to cry. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay,” he told me. “I love you, Juju. Be good.” A few moments later I looked around and realized that Jill and Mom weren’t there; Jill couldn’t even bring herself to come into the room. Eventually Mom brought her in and said to Dad, “Look at this little girl I found in the hallway.” Dad gave Jill the same sweet, peaceful smile he gave me and said, “Hi, my girl.” Mikey later regaled us with the story of HIS entrance into the room: he had been so overcome with shock and grief that everyone left him alone with Dad, including Mom and the doctor who had been mid-sentence when Mikey lost his composure. “I’m pretty sure they’ve got it noted in Dad’s chart: ‘Youngest son is a total sissy,’ ” Mikey told me. And Dad– and the rest of us– laughed. Later, after Betsy and Jeff came, and everyone’s spouses and children, we all agreed that Mikey’s meltdown had been the most spectacular. And we began our vigil. For the next few days, our spouses, our children, beloved family friends came in and out– but for the most part it was the original seven Giampaolos: Mom, Dad, and the 5 kids. Saturday night is a memory that I am both devastated by and fiercely proud of– Dad’s will to live was an amazing force, and my mother and siblings are the most loving and devoted people I have ever known in my life. A priest came at about 2am and blessed Dad… and then daylight finally came and found Dad sleeping peacefully. Declining, but peaceful. What a gift it was to see him resting comfortably. Here’s another part of a vigil like this that people tend to gloss over: we came to the hospital with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We had no toothbrushes, no pajamas, no contact lens solution. We curled up in chairs and leaned our heads against walls. In the morning, having been essentially up all night, we were total wrecks. Thank God for the rest of our family, who brought us food and clothes and toothpaste (Mikey actually used Caitlin’s deodorant in an act of desperation. Jeff watched him put it on, then said, “You know Mike– I have deodorant you could have used”). We sat by Dad’s bed all that Sunday, when the priest came by and blessed Dad again. He was never alone for a moment, and there was rarely a time when someone wasn’t holding his hand, or stroking his head, or just talking to him. Sunday night was considerably easier: the nurses had given us blankets and pillows. With Dad settled and resting, we could actually sleep in shifts too (fun fact: Jeff made a bed out of a rolling chair and a bedside chair. He called it “the contraption” as in, “Here, Mike: I’ll sit by Dad awhile. Why don’t you come sleep in my contraption?”). Monday morning rolled around and the rest of our family returned. Dad received one final blessing from the priest, who told us that he rarely saw so many family members in a situation such as ours, and how wonderful it was that we were there for Dad. He said, “Surely he knows you are all here.” We already knew that. Monday afternoon, Mom was sitting by Dad’s side and we took a photo of their linked hands. Then all of us seemed to realize it at once: Dad had taken his last breath. It was so peaceful. He was so surrounded by love. I can never accurately explain all the large and small heroics performed by every member of my family during that weekend. I can just tell you that these are some incredible people: in the midst of the worst thing that has ever happened to us, my family treated one another gently. We found love and laughter and gratitude for one another in the midst of our grief. (Well, also I blatantly stole Mikey’s pillow one night. Ask him: he will certainly tell you all about it.) Then, over the course of the following week, we came to realize that it wasn’t just us who loved Dad so well– he was loved by many, many people. So many that we needed Emergency Services to direct traffic at his wake, and so many that his funeral, despite occurring in the midst of a blizzard, was attended by people who came from hours away to say their goodbyes. I will never get over the loss of my dad. However I am also acutely aware of how lucky I am be his daughter. Still. Y’all need to thank Dave when you see him, because he has spent literally hours figuring a way to share this slide show on this page. Click below to see the photo slide show we put together for Dad’s services; you’ll see lots of photos of Dad as a kid (looking remarkably like Cammy); photos from my parents’ wedding and the first years of their lives together, pix from our childhood (many starring my impressive eyebrows, and when you see my dad you’ll realize where mine came from) etc. The slide show closes with a photo of my parents holding hands, during his final moments here with us, and it’s a memory I will carry with me forever. On Wednesday evening, we went to the funeral home to see Dad and set up the room before Thursday’s wake. As we walked in, his all-time favorite song had just begun: “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers. That album also serves as the soundtrack for this slide show. Enjoy. Love you, Dad. Below is a copy of the memorial that my siblings and I read at Dad’s funeral yesterday. Each of us also shared a memory of my dad that was especially important to us. By the way– I also have a copy of the amazing slide show from Dad’s wake, which I will upload for you some time tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy Betsy, Jeff, Jill, Mikey, and me, talking about our wonderful luck that this man was our dad:
Dad’s wake was tonight; I am amazed and overwhelmed by the people who turned out for Dad. Truly overwhelmed: the line was over an hour long and there were police directing traffic outside all night long. We were supposed to be waking from 4-8; we actually began around 3:30 and left the funeral home at a few minutes before midnight. Do you know how grateful and happy my family was, that so many people loved my dad? It was such a thrill to know that you loved him like we loved him. And you know that, somewhere, my dad was biting his cheeks and trying not to grin at his incredible turnout. You guys, he LOVED seeing every one of you. I heard so many stories about him tonight– some touching, many hilarious. And thank you also to those who came to support his family: my sweet friends whom I’ve known for twenty years came, brought their families, and stayed for hours even though I only talked to them for 10 minutes. I knew they were there, and I am so grateful. My friend Tobin came from Kansas as a surprise, and I was so happy to see him that I snotted all over his coat (sorry, Tob). People came for my mom, for my siblings, for our family. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I am so proud of my dad for creating this kind of legacy. Afterward, we had a few drinks in his honor and how he would have loved that. Once I caught myself looking around, thinking to myself, “Where’s Dad?” And when I remembered, I didn’t feel sad– I felt happy that so many people were celebrating his life. Thank you all for that, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for giving me and my family this memory. I will never forget this outpouring of love. We have spent the last few days in a flurry of activity and planning: finding photos, arranging services, choosing readings, etc. etc. Today, my siblings and I spent a large chunk of time writing the little speech we plan to give at Dad’s wake. I got surprisingly emotional and kept forcing myself to read it over and over, so that I could speak at the wake without devolving into a tear-soaked wreck. When we were more or less together, we each headed off to run various errands. I got into my car, thinking how much I missed my dad already. Now, here’s something you need to know first: over the weekend, as Dad’s condition worsened, he told us that he loved us over and over again. It was the last thing he said, in fact. “I love you,” he kept saying. “I love you.” So as I was saying: this afternoon I got in my car, feeling bereft. When I turned the key, I was surprised to hear the radio: one of Dad’s many car idiosyncrasies (which was drilled into our heads) was that you turn off the radio when you turn off the car. But I must have left it on, because these are the words I heard:
Thanks, Dad. I love you too.
You only get one chance to tell the story of how a warrior fought his final battle, so I want to do it right, and for that I need some time to finish saying goodbye. If you need details on Dad’s services, please contact me and I will gladly send them along. If you want to read the beautiful memorial page set up for him by The Sarcoma Foundation, click here. If you are moved to make a donation to the foundation in his honor, you can do that there as well. Thanks again for everything. Dad’s kidneys are breaking down and his lungs are failing him. He seemed better last night but things went south over night and are not looking good today. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers right now. Dad’s back in the hospital this afternoon; he’s having a very hard time catching his breath. Please keep him in your thoughts and I’ll keep you posted. |
|
||||||
|
Copyright © 2012 The Family Jules - All Rights Reserved |
||||||||
Posts
Comments
Facebook
Twitter