There was nothing soft about my father. He was old-school strict and often brutally harsh. Seeking comfort from him was like trying to buy milk at a hardware store. To his credit, he was an excellent provider. But a lousy Dad.
The truth is I didn't know my father. No one did.
He was an enigmatic man with a brick wall around him so high you could never look in. The only thing predictable about him was his unpredictability. His mercurial moods were as reliable as a volatile stock market.
My father was a Greek immigrant who came to the U.S. in the early 1950s seeking the American dream. He left his home village in Greece at age 16, in 1936. He fought in WWII, almost died from pneumonia, suffered hard economic times and yet, still created a successful business in New York City with no formal education. My father never finished high-school. He loved to brag that although he never earned a college degree, he was a "graduate of the university of life."
He never talked about his past either -- especially his childhood. If you asked him about it, he would skewer you like a shish-kebab and send you packing before you could say feta cheese. Apparently, somewhere along his life path, he was ruthlessly mistreated which left an indelible wound in his heart -- a wound he would never recover from.
In October of 2004, dying of complications from a stroke, my 84-year-old father slipped into a coma. He signed the DNR a few days earlier, choosing to decline further treatment. He had no friends. He alienated everyone in his life through his own indifference.
My father and I never got along. We went together like noise and a bad hangover. Because I hated him as much as I loved him, the guilt haunted me for years. There wasn't enough top-shelf Ouzo in the world to numb me of that pain.
As I sat with my father in his final moments, despite our bad blood and the hostility we possessed for each other, I wanted him to hear the voice of his son. I wanted him to know that he was not dying alone.
The hospice facility felt creepy to me -- like a hotel from hell. People checked in, but they never checked out. The place gave me the heebie-jeebies.
The nurse looked at me caringly, hoping to soften the blow, "John... he is close."
"What do you mean?" I asked. No hospice staffer ever used any variation of the "d" word. No death, dying, dead.
"His blood-oxygen level is very low, which is usually an indication that a person is nearing the end."
"Oh," I replied. My stomach churned. A surge of dread raced through my body, "How long does he have?"
The nurse on duty, Espi, short for Esperanza, asked me to sit on a wooden chair next to my father's bed. From across the room she dragged over an identical chair and sat down next to me. She'd obviously done this many times before.
"John... it could be hours, but probably not days." She placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently. She continued, "What might help you is to know that when the time between each breath your father takes begins to widen, it means that he is getting even closer." Espi once again avoided the "d" word.
I sank into a trance of quiet shock. Something about her words regarding my father's breathing drew my attention to it. Suddenly, I began counting the seconds separating each breath he took with obsessive precision. I was mesmerized.
The first time I counted, 4 seconds divided each breath. But I could see that each breath was labored. Earlier in the day, they had fitted him with an oxygen mask because his aged lungs were weakening.
My stupor was disturbed by Espi's voice, "John?" She was still patiently sitting next to me, "Are you all right?"
I smiled, "Oh, yeah... sorry, I'm fine."
She rose from the chair and left the room. I didn't want her to go. I was afraid to be alone with him. I had always been afraid to be alone with him.
As a child, if I made him angry, he battered me with shame-inducing tactics that were very effective. For example, accusing me of having a weak character and reminding me that when he was a teenager, he worked three jobs, supported his family, and never complained.
So, I began counting again.
The day I imagined for many years was here. How would I handle it? Would I break down? Would I grieve my father's death?
I waited. I cupped his limp hand in mine.
Within 30 minutes, the intervals of time that separated my father's breaths were now lasting up to six seconds. His head drooped over his chest, rising every time he inhaled. His chin touched his neck.
I counted seven seconds.
I heaved a Herculean breath.
I squeezed his hand and leaned in close to his ear, "Pop... I..." A rebel tear broke through. I pulled back and waited at the edge of the chair, but he was completely unresponsive.
So, I leaned in again, "Pop... I'm... proud." My upper lip quivered. "I'm proud to be your son."
He didn't move a muscle.
I pulled back again, turning my head away from his face. I had always felt ashamed of crying in front of him. Any display of emotion, especially tears, was unacceptable to him.
Two eight-second intervals passed.
The next interval turned into an eternity.
The Gods in Mount Olympus finally heard his pleas.
I was aghast at how his face instantly turned a pasty white once the life force left his body. In nanoseconds, my father transformed from a living organism to an inanimate cadaver. I abruptly let go of his hand. A shiver crawled up my spine. I stepped out of the room to alert the staff.
Moments later, a doctor came in. He took the oxygen mask off and began listening to his heart with a stethoscope. My father's cheeks had creases across them from the elastic band of the mask.
Listening for any life still left in my father, the doctor said, "A few beats left..."
The silence in the room was palpable.
Then he said in a hush, "He's passed."
His words reverberated in my mind. But there was nothing natural about them. They sounded like they were pulled from a cheap Hollywood script, or a melodramatic 19th century English novel. I could not accept them.
The doctor removed the stethoscope plugs from his ears, "Is he your father?"
I nodded, staring at his lifeless body.
"My condolences." He then looked at my father too, "Were you close to him?"
I was taken aback by his question. But, it gave me the opportunity to give my father one final gift.
"Very," I replied to the doctor, "We were very close... he was a great dad."