Rest in peace, Dad

Posted September 03, 2009

Bruce Edward Hilson, my dad, was born on November 10, 1938. Come to find out, his mom changed his birth certificate to read 1938 so that he could start school a year sooner. It wasn't until he was in his 50's when this was discovered. Someone had erased the pencil-mark '9 and drew in, with different handwriting, an '8. Hey happy Birthday dad. You are actually a year younger than you thought you were your entire life.

He met my mom in Houston through a mutual friend telling them both "Oh you have to meet this guy/girl, you will really hit things off." The rest was history. They married soon, my mom became pregnant with me, two years later I had a sister.

I first noticed his illness about 15 years ago. His hand had a steady, uncontrollable but rhythmic twitch that only stopped when he was asleep. That eventually began to affect both hands, his walking, his speech, and his balance.

My sister quit her job and moved back home to help care for him a few years ago. Like my mom, her knees and back would begin to suffer from having to pick him up off the floor regularly.

He was never formally diagnosed, as he was terrified of hospitals and doctors. But there are only so many diseases with these symptoms. Mostly likely, it was Parkinson's. The dementia that started showing up occasionally a few years ago confirmed this to me.

I was at home tonight, retouching photos, and the phone rang. My mom was in tears, and asked me to come to the Plano Hospital. My father had just been taken away and he was no longer breathing.

The last time I had been to that hospital had to be nearly 25 years ago. I remember riding my bike up there to visit a friends sick parent. AJ's mom was released that night after we visited her. Someone moved my bike while we were inside. As I circled the building, I couldn't stop thinking about AJ and his mom. God, the shit we think about to distract ourselves what what we already know...

I parked in visitor parking. It was probably as far away from the emergency room as possible. But I was just in a sort of haze. It's like I was watching a movie of my life, and the screen was my own eyes. I wasn't participating, but the me that was playing me was following the script that had been rehearsed so many times over the years.

I found the emergency room in time for my mom, sister, and brother-in-law to come out of the room. My mom sobbed as she held me saying "He's gone. He's gone. They couldn't wake him up." I held her as I struggled to find my voice, I failed. All I could say was a barely audible whisper, "I know."

We spent the next hour, two hours... actually I don't know how long were were there. Time seemed to pass differently in the waiting room as people rushed in, told us the of the next step, and prepared us for the next person that would speak to us.

My dad will be cremated tomorrow or Friday. We will invite a few people over for a brief memorial. And when she's ready, my mom will scatter his ashes where she promised him she would.

It's been a rough decade. I remember my father being so tall and strong. His big hands would come down and scoop me up, tickling me with his beard as I giggled. He would carry me from the car at night after I fell asleep on long road trips. He helped me work on my first car. He was always there, with a smile, and a gleam in his eye that told me he loved me. I remember seeing him drool for the first time. My mom casually grabbed a paper towel to wipe off his beard. I remember picking him up for the first time when he fell while I was over there. I remember being angry because he was sick and unwilling to do anything about it. I remember when my world changed.

It's been a few years since I got over the anger. Both of his parents went to the hospital shortly before dying. In his mind, you only go to a doctor to die. How do you argue with that logic? We tried repeatedly and never succeeded. So then all we could do was keep him company, keep him fed, and try to keep him happy. It worked most of the time.

And now, as I sit here with tears falling down my cheeks, I can't help but remind myself that he is no longer suffering. He is no longer a prisoner in a failing body. I'm not the person to say if he is in a better place, I'm not particularly religious. But I do know that he is no longer scared of being home alone. He will no longer fall and bruise his knuckles. He will no longer need to be picked up, in the same way he used to pick me up when I was a baby.

He entered this world on the day he was born with his first breath. Tonight, after stubbornly holding on for years, he finally let go of that breath.

Rest in peace dad. I miss you and I will always love you.
Brian Edward Hilson
September 2nd, 2009