Memories

It was 5am May 18, 2018. I just woke to the alarm on my phone. I was sound asleep in the Hospice facility next to my dad. I had gone out to dinner & drinks with my aunts & cousins the night before and they all invited me to stay with them, but I declined. I was heading back to columbus and knew it may be the last time I saw my dad alive. So I left them that evening and went to his hospice room. It was @midnight when I arrived. The night shift nurse said he had just been in there to give dad some meds to relax. He also stated he kept his oxygen off when he left the room. At the time it didn’t fully register, but that meant the oxygen wasn’t going to be necessary for him much longer. The hospice nurses/docs know when it’s close but not exactly how close…days, hours, minutes. Their gut knows, but they can’t say it to us exactly. Yes, I’ll admit, I was a little buzzed from hanging with the fam so I didn’t really ask to many questions. I went to his room pulled the recliner over as close to the bed as I could, reclined back and slept.

My flight was at 7am the next morning and I wasn’t completely sold on the fact I’d actually leave. I had missed a flight a few days prior when he was still in the hospital and we were deciding what was next. I chuckle a bit as I recall that moment at the hospital when I decided I’d be missing my flight. The palliative care doctor came in to evaluate dad and talk to us. I was sitting on the couch in his Hospital room, talking with the doctor & Mary and agonizing over wether I should leave or not. My gut was telling me that I couldn’t head back home until we decided what was next. In true Tim Dixon form, dad decided that for us. The palliative care doctor leans over dad and says “Tim, do you want to continue to live like this?” Dad replies as clear as day in the perfect tone “I highly doubt it”. I was crying and laughing simultaneously. We had gotten our answer. Why was it funny, you ask? Because of the way he said it – it was so HIM and just moments prior he was combative and not himself at all. The timing of his mind giving an honest answer was amazing and the delivery was hilarious.

At that moment we decided dad was heading to hospice and the feeding tube was being removed. It was difficult, but what dad wanted. That decision was etched in stone when I read his living will that evening. I showed my step-mother and brother the statement within the document “all nourishment should be withheld”. That was it, we fulfilled his final wishes.

So there I was that May 18th morning, the alarm sounds at 5am and it’s time to decide again if I’m missing another flight or heading home. I sat there looking at him, struggling a bit with each breath, I knew it was close, but no idea if it was hours or days. I had been in Florida for over a week now. I would miss coaching Ginas softball game, I would miss Julias soccer game and Maria’s volleyball…I didn’t know what to do. Should I stay by his side until the end? Should I go be with my family? I was pacing the room, then bawling at his bedside, I knew it was close, but not sure if it was hours or days. Finally, I said to myself “get it together Dixon, he wouldn’t want you to sit here and watch him die”. So I gathered my stuff. Looked at him and said “I’m going now & so can you. It’s ok dad…it’s ok. You can go”. The oxygen the nurse had earlier taken off was still hanging next to him, I gently grabbed it and started to put it on him. He opened his eyes wider and looked at me like I was nuts and pushed it away. I gave him a kiss & said “I love you”. He looked at me and mouthed the words “I love you” and we both said goodbye. It was heart wrenching but the right choice. I needed to get back to my family where he would’ve wanted me to be. He passed 19 hours later.

Memories can make you laugh or cry, happy or sad, and at times angry. They live in our minds for years. Often to be erased by old age or blocked to protect us from potential hurt. Regardless they’re there wether we like it or not. One year later on May 18th I woke to that same phone alarm, but this time to get ready for Race for the Cure. To celebrate the lives of those affected by this evil disease, Breast Cancer.

It was a great day spent with family and friends that have been by my side since the day I was diagnosed. Those same people were by my side when my dad passed. Those that couldn’t walk with us sent well wishes, donated to the cause, and were with us in spirit. Breast cancer has taken the lives of many, some of whom I’ve known and others I wish to have known. Maybe my dad has met some of those fine ladies in heaven. It’s interesting to me that the timing of the anniversary of his death will always line up with the Race for the Cure. That 6 months after his passing I was diagnosed and each time I celebrate another year without cancer, I will be remembering that farewell moment at his bedside. I will always be glad that he didn’t have to be on the receiving end of a call from me telling him I had Cancer.

The race for me was interesting and not as emotional as I anticipated. Maybe because I was in so much pain that I just wanted to finish. To be honest, it felt slightly awkward. I think because I’m only 6 months out from diagnoses & still in treatment, therefore not fully owning the “survivor” title. Although I hobbled across the finish line, received my medal and proceeded to sing “I’m a survivor” over & over; making my friends laugh and the youth role their eyes, it still felt awkward inside to receive that attention.

We made sure I had the full experience by attending the survivor celebration and participating in the parade and group photo. Standing there on those stairs may have been when I felt the most emotion. That emotion was mainly of sadness. Sad that there was such a sea of pink representing so many affected by this disease and it still was a small representation of the total. 1 in 8 is real and that sucks!

We ended last weekend watching the girls finish their spring sports while I silently remembered my dad and my memories of his loss last May 19th.

As always, thanks for being with me during this journey. This post alone has allowed me to reflect and release some emotion that I’ve held for quite some time. I may sit alone with tears in my eyes as I type and hit the post button, but I don’t feel alone at all in this journey. I’m thankful for social media in these moments to allow me to be supported by the many people that have crossed my path throughout my 45 years on this earth. As well as some I’ve never met. I hope I can continue to share and heal and pay it forward to others while making Memories along the way.