I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom — August 28, 1963
I vividly remember listening to those words as they played on the record player in the living room of the two main houses we lived in growing up. My parents had a recording of Dr. King’s speeches, and I used to occasionally get the record out to listen to it. His amazing way of preaching his messages always sent chills down my spine.
Jan. 15 is, of course, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a day to commemorate and honor a great man, a man who contributed so much to the civil rights movement in America and who sadly was gunned down in his prime. A man who was a hero to many. This is the day that we look at what Dr. King did for the civil rights movement, and and how much far we’ve come with race relations in this country, and how much farther we all have to go. I always feel that mix of feelings on MLK Day, that mix of sadness and happiness.
For me, though, Jan. 15 has a double meaning. It is a very personal day because it was on Jan. 15, 1988 that my beloved father succumbed to liver cancer after 6 months.
Dad went peacefully that day as he had slipped into a coma a few days before. Once he went into a coma, it was just a matter of waiting, so my whole family gathered to be there with him.
Dad had been diagnosed in July 1988. I had been married for one year to my first husband and was in my first professional library job. By pure luck, I was working in the same town where my parents lived and my ex-husband and I lived in apartments that were a 5-minute walk from my parents’ house. Because of that, I was able to visit my dad frequently. I did, too. What a gift that was! I visited him almost every day during that time. The cancer was terminal and aggressive and the prognosis was 4-6 months. He lived almost 6 months to the day of the diagnosis.
He got through Christmas, which was really difficult. By that time, he had a severe difficulty with smells and wasn’t able to keep much food down, so the turkey was cooked outside in a roaster — in the freezing cold while snow fell around it. Mom would do anything to keep my dad comfortable. He stayed at home all the time except when he needed special medical care, and during those times he did have hospital stays. We had a hospice nurse who came to the house and took care of him, at first once a week, and as the disease progressed, more frequently. Her name is Elaine, and we all still think of her as a saint. We will forever be indebted to Elaine for her gentle and compassionate care of my father. Otherwise, my mom took care of the daily medical care, which was no small feat.
A hospital bed was moved into the family room so my dad could see out the large picture window into the back yard, and especially so that he could watch the birds come to the birdfeeder that he had lovingly put up. I or someone in the family was to keep the birdfeeder full of birdseed at all times. He made sure we remembered too. A twin bed was also moved into the family room for Mom to sleep on, and she slept on it the entire time Dad was sick.
Dad kept his incredible sense of humor during his illness. Particularly for those of you who know me in person — I wish you could have known my father. My humor is straight from him. There were times during his illness that my mother had colds and had to cover her mouth and nose when she was near him. Until she procured a hospital mask, she put a bandana over her mouth and nose so she looked like an old-time train robber. Every single time she came into the family room, he put his arms up like he was the person being robbed. She would respond with an “Ohhh, John!!,” but it always made him crack up. Always.
Oh, there’s more to the story of Dad’s illness, and there’s definitely more to the story of my father. But all of that is for another time. Other times and other posts. How can anyone sum up a person in one post? I can’t do justice to my father in one post, or two, or even a whole blog of posts. But I’ll post about him again, of that I’m sure.
My dad was a good man, a compassionate man. I’ll tell you more about my dad someday. He wasn’t known on the level of Dr. King, but in some ways, he was a hero to me.
So, on Monday, I’ll be honoring and celebrating two heroes: Dr. King. And Dad. And missing them both.
Posted in Martin Luther King, death, family
