For a Dream

(In December my dad, who I had not seen for 20 years, suffered a stroke at 73 and was hospitalized for two weeks. The following journal is an account of my experience.):

Dec. 14, 2008: It's a Sunday, late afternoon and the phone rings. My mom, who divorced my dad back in 1975 and remarried the following year is calling to tell me he has had a stroke and is in our hometown hospital in Georgia where we grew up. My sister Cindy is flying the short one-hour flight to see him from her home in Florida. He cannot speak or swallow. I am shocked, to say the least. I hadn't seen my dad since Feb. 1988 due to abuse in the family and we just started emailing each other a few months ago after attempting to reconcile many times before. I know my mom has called instead of Cindy because it's easier for Mom to call everyone else and explain whenever a crisis happens in our family than for Cindy to have to repeat everything over and over.

For the first time I am able to pray for my dad, something I have never been able to do.

Dec. 15: I get to talk to Cindy and she tells me that Dad is drooling out of the left side of his mouth and is paralyzed on the left side. But he appears to know who he is, where he is, and who everyone else, including his wife of 22 years, Carol, is. He hasn't seen Cindy in nine years and remembers that she is a therapist though at first he also thinks she's a nurse. Cindy thinks he's confused initially but soon realizes the truth. He talks about how he and I have been emailing each other and that he has enjoyed reading my stories. Since I was eight and knew I wanted to be a writer he has always encouraged my talent, having done some writing himself.

Cindy tells Dad there is a lit up Christmas tree on top of the hospital roof over his room.

"Really?" Dad says, like a child.

His enthusiasm was always that way.

"Do you remember when you lifted Terri up so she could put the star on the tree when she was little?" Cindy asked him.

He remembered.

Cindy tells Dad about the memory she has of him getting on the roof on Christmas Eve and stomping around like rendeer, then jingling bells like he's Santa as we lay in bed below. It was all to make us believe it was really Santa Claus up there.

"You remember that?" Dad asks Cindy in disbelief.

"Yeah," Cindy says.

The doctors do a swallow test but Dad doesn't want to take the medicine.

"It's bad! It's bad!" he exclaims.

Cindy talks him into it after telling him it will only be for a minute and that he doesn't have to drink the whole thing.

Dec. 16: The next day it's my mom that's calling to give me an update. She tells me he's improving and may be moved to rehab soon. They'll work with him on speech and other things. All of his in-laws are there, including his two stepsons, one of whom has known him since he was 11. He's now 36, married with six kids, lives in The Carolinas. The other, whose wedding Dad just attended the weekend before his stroke, lives out of state also. The relatives are telling Cindy how my dad cut the rug at the wedding reception and was the life of the party. That was always Dad.

Dec. 17: My stepdad's birthday. I have known my stepdad since I was nine yet my dad's stroke has put a damper on this day. Even though he also lives out of state, I always call him and I still do on this day though he knows about my dad and is sympathetic. He and Dad have never gotten along but he has nothing negative to say this day. Dad has a kidney doctor since his kidneys have started to fail, a lung doctor since his breathing isn't up to par, and a brain doctor to monitor his memory and communication skills. At this point I still haven't made the three-hour flight to see Dad because things keep changing and I continue getting updates from my mom or sister daily, keeping the phone beside me in case I get a call.

Dec. 18: It's a week before Christmas and more relatives and friends have gathered at Dad's bedside. Now he has been moved into ICU because he cannot breathe on his own, he's on dialysis, and is on several different machines keeping him alive. The doctors asked his wife for permission to sedate him after he contracts pneumonia and cannot clear his lungs on his own. The doctor attempts to put a tube down Dad's throat to clear it out but Dad has anxiety over it and they sedate him to do the procedure. But Dad continues to not be able to clear his throat on his own and, having suffered some mini strokes following the first one, he is later put on a breathing machine that is for less serious patients but still needed.

Dec. 19: Dad likes the eye mask that Cindy has brought him and she has the great idea of bringing in some soft Christmas music for him to listen to on a small headset to soothe him. Dad's wife has been camping out in the ICU waiting room since the day of the stroke and she won't leave his side no matter how much Cindy and others try to get her to eat or sleep. She does a little here and there but not enough to make that much of a difference. She also has asthma and is fragile herself. She tells Cindy how they met through Parents Without Partners in the 80s and how she knew when they met that he was the one.

"How did you know?" Cindy asks.

"I just knew," Carol replies.

Dec. 20: Dad has gotten numerous visitors from his church who mill in and out along with the family. His wife has created her own corner in the ICU waiting room which consists of a blanket, pillow, food, books, and other items she needs. There is a TV in the room, numerous chairs, some snacks and a couple of magazines donated, but no couch or recliner. Cindy comments that she can't believe there is no place for someone to lay down in there and she wonders if someone donated a couch or recliner if it would be used. The staff tell her they don't encourage people to sleep there and one nurse in particular is stern with Dad's wife, telling her that if she doesn't take care of herself she can't take care of him.

Dec. 21: Dad's wife tells Cindy that he is her life and she doesn't know how she can live without him. She holds out for a miracle and tells the doctors to not give up, to try everything. She tells Cindy that she and Dad talked about it a long time ago and that Dad would want her to keep him going. Debby, my sister who lives in AL, says she doesn't think Dad would want to be kept alive on machines. There is a stroke specialist by the name of Rhonda who has been working with stroke patients and their families for 25 years and she is incredible. She is gentle, yet firm, compassionate, yet does not lie to the family.

Dec. 22: I have had trouble sleeping since Dec. 14 when I got the news about my dad. Work is blurry and no one around me understands what I'm going through. I go to a potluck and tell the host I'm depressed about my dad and her response is, "Well, that's not going to do you any good." She, like so many of my friends don't understand depression which I have battled for 30 years. Yeah, I know it's not going to do me any good but it's not a choice. People don't understand that it's like breathing, totally involuntary. I am so scared that my dad is going to die though my mom tells me she has seen people come out of situations like this and recover. I remember a dentist I had a few years ago who had a stroke and his elderly mom had to take care of him after he lost his business due to the not being able to return to work.

Dec. 23: The mood is loud as numerous people surround Dad's room, in and out, holding his hand, talking to him though he has been medicated and is in a coma-like state to keep him alive. The doctors tell Cindy that even if he came out of it, there is brain damage, he would be on dialysis and a breathing machine for the rest of his life and would have to live in and out-of-state nursing home since Georgia does not admit patients in his condition who are dependent on those machines. The doctor tells Dad's wife that even if he wakes up he is not the man she married and he is not going to know who she is. Dad is an intellectual, a thinker, who can fix anything, and who has a big imagination. I know he would not want to be kept alive like this. He is a reader, a philosopher, a tinkerer, someone who is always searching for answers.

Dec. 24: It's Christmas Eve and Cindy goes home for a day or so though she feels guilty and torn.

"I don't want him to be alone but at the same time I want to have Christmas. But he's in the hospital," she tells me.

I really don't care about Christmas with my dad the way he is. It is a repeat of 2005 when my boyfriend Ruben was dying of cancer. Ruben wound up dying on New Year's Eve 2005. I keep hoping and praying Dad doesn't do the same but I'm afraid he will. I feel bad for not going to see him yet but my boss tells me we're too swamped, he's too short-handed, and that I can go on the 29th. I'm afraid Dad won't make it till then but my boss makes me feel so guilty, I can't leave. I feel terrible about it and get resentful though I say nothing, of course.

Dec. 25: I have to work and my boss screams at me first thing in the morning, ruining my holiday.

"I can't believe you're not focused," he yells at me.

How can he not believe it, knowing my dad is in the hospital, having empathized from day one? After all, his dad suffered a stroke Thanksgiving week and is still in the hospital though not as bad off as my dad. I am stunned that he screamed at me today and at his total lack of compassion all the sudden.

I don't even care about my job. I just want to go see Dad. But I can't and it sucks. I just want to run away, catch a plane, and I don't care if I'm fired. Suddenly nothing else seems important.

Dec. 26: I am surprised at my reaction initially on the 14th regarding Dad's stroke. I spent 30 years hating him and wanting revenge for what he did to my sister and I and I always said that I wouldn't go to his funeral if he died or if I did that I would spit and dance on his grave, cussing him out. And yet, when I got the news of my dad's stroke, I actually got teary-eyed which totally surprised me. My friend said I must have gotten my compassion from my mom but I told her it surprised me as much as it did her. I guess something in me changed, which amazed me. No one is as shocked as me. I used to have fantasies about killing Dad for what he put me through but now, no more.

Dec. 27: Dad has taken a turn for the worse. He had a CAT scan and is brain dead. He could not do the swallow test and had no sensation with the nerve sensation tests. He was moved back to ICU after being moved to a regular room. The nurse tells Cindy that if he did wind up having cardiac arrest and they attempted to bring him back that the procedure with the paddles was not pretty and that ribs are broken. I walk around in a haze, not believing this is happening, that he might actually die. In 1991 Dad suffered his first heart attack and I felt nothing. I didn't go see him. It was one of those times when we weren't talking but I told Cindy I would take her to see him since she was on crutches and there was an ice storm. However, neither one of us went though Cindy was the only one upset about his condition.

Dec. 28: Today would have been my late boyfriend and my anniversary. This year I'm celebrating my sobriety birthday and yet I don't feel like celebrating that night which is a tradition at my recovery group. I find out that day that after Dad had his first stroke which landed him in the hospital at first that he told Cindy once his wife left the room that he was sorry.

"He said he was sorry for the abuse?" I asked Cindy.

"He didn't use that word but we looked each other in the eye and we both knew what we were talking about," she answered. "I told him 'You don't have to keep saying you're sorry. You're forgiven."

I couldn't believe it. I had waited my entire life to hear those words from a man who refused to acknowledge he did anything wrong. He would never acknowledge, much less apologize.

Dec. 29: The next day I get on a plane, free from work for now and take the three hour flight to Georgia to see my dad in ICU, back to my hometown for the first time in 19 years. It is unrecognizable and now instead of being white bread, middle-class America, it's home to the working poor and run down to the point of depression. It's weird because I'd been having dreams about my dad and my childhood home for about a year, wondering what the nightmares meant. Now it seems maybe they were trying to tell me something. It all seems surreal being there with Dad, Cindy says, and she's right. I am numb, still shut down as I sit in the cab at the hotel waiting for Cindy's arrival there to take me over to the hospital just around the corner.

We eat dinner first since we have to wait till ICU visiting hours are starting up again. Once they do, the nurse preps me for what I'm about to see. Whereas before when Dad could not be touched in the regular room before sedation since he's back in ICU I can touch him now though he is in a coma and cannot hear me. I nod my head, thinking I understand but as I round the corner and just catch a sideways glimpse of him lying there I realize this is going to be bad and I'm not prepared for this at all.

I feel my legs move into his room where a loud machine is shaking his body, turned up full blast to keep his heart going. The TV blares in the background which Cindy promptly turns off. Bright lights glare over his bed and he has numerous tubes in him from his nose and other places.

He does not look at himself at all and I tell Cindy this.

"It' because of all the tubes and things on him," Cindy explains as she attempts to try to get me to recognize his features.

Only I don't.

He wears a warming blanket and he has bandages on some of his facial features. I stare at him.

"Dad, Terri's here," Cindy tells him loudly.

"Hi, Dad," I say, softly, continuing to stare at him.

I touch his hand and notice that just as my sister Debby told me, his hands and feet are so swollen it's scary.

I see Dad's wife for the first time since 1986 and surprisingly she is excited to see me again. She has told Cindy that she had a dream that Dad woke up and told her not to give up on him. So she tells Cindy she's holding out for her miracle.

When she sees my dad she says, "I've got your wedding ring around my neck. I can't wait to put it back on your finger."

She had taken it off because his hands were so swollen she had to.

His hands and feet are blue and the scary color is creeping up his legs because he's not getting any circulation. His lips are horribly dry, bluish and his tongue is black. His wife puts chapstick on him and asks for moisturizer from the nurses often.

I decide, having noticed that people donate snacks, magazines, and games to the ICU waiting room, that I will do the same in Dad's memory when I get home at the local hospital near me on a regular basis.

Dec. 30: The next day my sister Debby arrives from Alabama with her husband Thomas. She has been to see Dad a few times in the hospital and Cindy has been back and forth three or four times since he had his stroke. Debby just reconnected with Dad in April after not having seen him for several years. He supposedly was a changed man, having been baptized in March, my birthday month and this whole double life thing going with his new church family who just knew him as a sweet man. Debby had not been happy with one of the nurses early on regarding my dad's care and she spoke her mind about it.

Later that night we find out that Dad has contracted a staph infection now and if we want to see him in ICU we have to wear a mask and gloves. Since Cindy has hypothyroidism she opts not to take the chance on catching anything and she feels like she has said her good-byes after the stroke specialist told us earlier that day that the doctors are running out of options.

Dad has less than a ten percent chance of survival and the nurse tells us that they are bordering on heroics at this point.

A church friend comes to see Dad's wife and tells her the story of how her husband went through the same thing and his heart just stopped.

"Well, that's what's going to have to happen because I can't make the decision to have them turn off the machines," Dad's wife told her.

As we wait in the ICU waiting room Cindy notices some bags of Bugles and remembers that Dad used to eat those. He and Mom used to have parties in the basement and he would fill a big bowl full of them. Cindy also saw a box of Pinwheels on someone's counter from the in-laws' family and said she hadn't seen them in years.

They were another of Dad's favorites.

I had initially said I wasn't going to go back into his room to talk to him but something keeps pulling me to do so since I haven't told him good-bye or anything really, beyond "Hi."

Although I'm considered to also have a compromised immune system because of my asthma, I don the mask and gloves anyway as the nurse tells us that unless he coughs on us, we're safe. It's just a precaution.

I enter the room, protected, and stand at his bedside. His eyes are still closed of course and the only sound is the whir of the machine keeping his heart going. I tell him thank you for always encouraging me with my writing and that it's because of him that I do it, that if it weren't for him I would have never pursued it. I apologize and ask for forgiveness for not seeing him all these years (though I had to do so to protect myself). I leave the part in parentheses out in this spiel. I tell him that I miss my Daddy, missed my Dad, that I was hoping we would get to talk, that I will miss our emails to each other, and that we will take care of his wife.

I tell him that I know he'll be watching my daughter grow up from where he is in Heaven.

I don't remember what else I say but when I exit the room I am sobbing and cannot stop. Debby and Cindy rub my back as I break down.

"He said he was proud of you and to tell you that he loved you," Cindy reminds me, something she told me early on when he was still talking.

We stay for awhile at the ICU waiting room where Dad's wife shows us some recent pictures and by the time we get to bed it's after midnight.

Dec. 31: Cindy goes to see Dad early and also to talk to the doctor about things. But no sooner does she pull into the hospital parking lot she gets a call from Dad's wife telling us that his blood pressure is dropping fast and to get Debby and myself and come to his bedside right away.

By the time we get there he is gone, his heart has stopped. His wife is draped over him, talking to him and crying.

We go into the room where we wait and wait for a doctor to come up to turn off the machine. I notice one of Dad's ears is yellow and as I touch his hands I notice they are cold.

A chaplain enters the room at some point and prays with us while Debby, being Pentacostal, says her own prayer out loud.

We wait some more and finally a young doctor enters the room, doesn't even acknowledge we're standing there, but kneels down and talks to Dad's wife. I can't hear what he's saying but hope it's comforting.

Then, turning to the nurse he says, roughly, "Where's the off button on this thing?" which I cannot believe.

Dad's wife eventually gathers his things and starts making phone calls when she is able to halfway compose herself. We go back to the ICU waiting room where we wait for the nurse to clean Dad up and call us back into the room.

I am numb. None of it seems real. My dad has died the same day as my boyfriend did in 2005 after all. And I think at the same time, even - 8:30 a.m. It is also my niece's 30th birthday.

Later that afternoon we meet with the funeral director and the next thing we know we're gathered around a table discussing arrangements, viewings, burial, and looking at caskets.

We get to see Dad's birth certificate for the first time where we see his Italian parents' names and find out his dad was 63 when Dad was born, much to our surprise. I take notes from the birth certificate to do ancestry research later, something Cindy and I had been working on anyway awhile back.

We determine the funeral will be in three days, which would have been my boyfriend's birthday had he lived. Dad, having served in the Air Force at one time, will get a military funeral, at the suggestion of his brother-in-law who he was close to.

In the parking lot as we're leaving Cindy notices a miniature Koala bear and points it out to me. We used to put those on our Christmas tree when we were kids.

"That's like Dad's saying 'hi,'" Cindy says. "You should keep it."

So I put it in my purse.

That night Cindy goes to a spa with her best friend from high school who she has kept in touch with all these years and I, though invited, stay at the hotel and write my dad's obituary which I was asked to do.

I find it ironic that I'm writing it when it was Dad who always encouraged me with my writing.

Mid-way through writing it as I hear some people celebrating the new year, a depression creeps up on me and I wish I had said yes to Cindy's invite. But she has already left and I have to have the obit to the funeral director in the morning on time so he can turn it into the newspaper for publication. It's the same paper where I used to work; our hometown newspaper.

I finish the obituary, email everyone about Dad, talk to the hotel clerk for a bit about my dad's death and listen to her horrible year, then go upstairs to my room and reluctantly watch Carson Daly's New Year's Eve celebration on TV.

I worry about Cindy who comes in at 3 a.m., having had a good gabfest with her best friend.

Jan. 1, 2009: Cindy and I pick her girlfriend up from the airport. She has come to stay with Cindy for a couple of days while we get through the viewing, funeral, and burial.

We show the obituary that morning to Dad's wife for her approval and as she reads it, she cries.

Earlier that night we go to Dad's mother-in-law's who we discover is a riot at 80-something years old. She reminds Cindy of our late great-grandma who also had all her wits about her and she tells us a story of when she was a teenager and two guys fought over her for marriage.

We walk in the kitchen and notice some relatives of my dad's wife are playing Parchisi, a game we played a lot as kids.

Later we go through pictures at Dad's wife's and I get upset about the fact that she only wants to include one picture of us with our dad and about a bad memory about Dad. I go outside and talk to the sky/Dad.

"You still have me by the throat, don't you?" I say to the clouds, wanting to drink.

I stand there in the cold and cry silently then compose myself and go back into the apartment where my sisters, niece, her husband, and my stepmom and one of her sons are pouring over pictures.

Finally, well after midnight, the decision is made as to which pix will be included in the DVD for the slideshow to be shown at the viewings, one of which is the next night.

On the way home Cindy notices that the tree on top of the hospital roof is now dark, no longer lit up with the possibility of Christmas.

When we get back to the hotel I have an argument with Cindy and tell her I'm going to spend the night in the hotel fitness room while doing laundry down there, that I'm too upset about the pictures to sleep right now.
I storm out and later she catches up with me in the computer room while I'm waiting for my clothes to wash. I break down crying about everything.

"He just went on with his life for 20 years. He missed out on all the good stuff in our lives," I said. "Even the bad. He couldn't be there for that."

"This is the hardest thing," Cindy empathized. "It would be hard enough just him dying but with the added dynamics it makes it much harder."

We talked for awhile as we've always been able to do, us being so close, comrades in our battles even if one of us didn't relate.

We'd gone from being sisters telling stories in the dark as elementary school students to women in their 40s reaching out to one another across the miles even still after all these years, never breaking our bond.

It is 3 a.m. for me this time before I finish my wash and go to bed. I sleep peacefully for the first time in awhile.

Jan. 2: On this cloudy day it has rained that morning and we visit our old neighborhood, take pictures, and remember old times.

We find our childhood home which Cindy has been to twice in her adult years and we notice no one is home so we get out of the car and try to find the tiny set of footprints of mine from my three-year-old self when our driveway was freshly poured and Dad dipped my feet in to make an impression. But we can't find them now. We stand at the top of the hill in the backyard and remember our old neighbors, the sandbox, how we slid down the hill during snow storms on garbage can lids, and spotted the old patio where Mom used to lay out in the summer.

The new owners had taken out the garage, made it a carport, put on a back porch, painted the house, expanded the front porch, and put in a fence in the backyard. Gone were my Mom's old rose bushes in the front yard and the gas lamp that used to be home base when we played yard games. The old mailbox had been replaced by a large fancy one but you could still see the numbers "989" on the side of the driveway.

"There's the bathroom," Cindy remembers, pointing to the window that now had a crack in it to the left of the front door.

We sit in the driveway in the car and tell Cindy's girlfriend some of our memories. At some point I notice there's a van sitting in the middle of the road waiting for us to get out of their driveway and I realize it's the owners.

We back out of the driveway and I go with Cindy as she explains to the parents that don't speak English that we used to live there and we were just looking at the house. Cindy asks one of the little boys if they like living there and he says yes, that they've lived there four years.

We ride up the street and notice that Cindy's childhood friend's house is up for rent. Then we go around the curve to the various houses, riding slow and pointing out different things to Cindy's girlfriend.

"We trick or treated all through here," I explained. "We only had one Hispanic family in the neighborhood."

"There was our busstop," Cindy said, pointing to the gutter. "You had to race down the hill to catch the bus."

Rounding the corner we decided to stop off at the Village Store where we walked to several times a day when we were kids.

As we entered we noticed it looked totally different inside and now there was bulletproof glass behind the counter. Upstairs used to be the antique store where we went once as kids and one of us almost broke something.

We passed by Milford Park where we cheerleaded in Little League. I had forgotten that Cindy used to walk me way down there for practice. At the time we didn't think it was far but now it sure seemed like it.

We stopped by what used to be Dante's Pizza where my dad knew the owner who was straight from Italy like Dad's parents. Only now, like the rest of the shopping strip, it was a Hispanic bakery and the salespeople just looked at us blankly.

After running funeral-related errands most of the day, we only have about an hour for a nap then it's off to the first viewing.

We enter the funeral home, having picked up the paper and spot my dad's obituary, half of which Cindy helped me sharpen before we let Dad's wife see it. An old friend of Cindy's had called after seeing the obituary, wanting to attend the funeral but Cindy is not ready to see him at this time.

Soon more people show up and we file into the viewing room where Dad lays in a blue casket, the Air Force symbol as a backdrop to the interior. He is dressed in a blue suit, the same one he wore to the wedding the weekend before his stroke. We line up to view him in the casket and cry and cry.

I read the cards on the flowers and finally sit down as the slideshow set to music starts. The song is "You Raise Me Up" by Josh Groban and I can only watch it twice and cry through each one. It plays over and over but I can't continue to view it as some others can.

More people arrive and offer their condolences and my sisters and I mill about the room talking to various family members and friends.

One of the floral arrangements I notice has a little yellow-orangish bird that was identical to one that used to be in a fake floral arrangement that my mom had on the coffee table when we were kids. I point out this to my sisters.

One of my Dad's step granddaughters named Ivy is about six or seven and Cindy and I both notice she looks like me when I was her age. She is also in the slideshow with my dad.

Jan. 3: It's the second viewing and the day of the funeral. It's also what would have been my boyfriend's birthday. I wear a blue dress that I forget chokes me in the neck once I sit down if I zip it all the way up to my neck.

We get to the viewing in the a.m. but this time I don't go up to the casket and I don't watch the slideshow. I just sit outside the room where some other people have gathered and make conversations with family and friends of my dad.

After what seems like forever it is time for the service to start and we file into the main room and sit in the front row.

I don't cry during the service like I thought I would. At this point I'm shut down again, I guess or cried out, one of the two. Dad's minister from his church does the honors and there are songs. It goes by too fast, I think and then we're lining up in cars to go to the burial in another town.

It's a foggy day and we have police escorts on our way to the cemetery. Cindy comments on how two male strangers standing on the side of the road took off their hats when they spot the funeral procession. Cars on the road acknowledge us by pulling over and waiting for the line to pass.

Arriving at the cemetery I almost fall getting out of the car on a hill. Cindy notices the burial workers are already standing there under the tent.

"I've never seen that before," she says.

We file in, sitting in the second row. The mother-in-law who is a riot sits in front of me and Debby sits beside me.

The minister says a few words and then the two military men do the flag ceremony, unfolding it, folding it, and handing it to my dad's wife.

Soon "Taps" begins and I almost start crying.

Too briefly we are done and are headed now to the church fellowship hall where the church ladies are getting ready to serve the family and friends of Dad a lunch.

As we round the hill exiting the cemetery, Cindy notices the lake of ducks close by. Dad enjoyed feeding the ducks throughout his life at various lakes. Dad is buried next to his father-in-law.

"Dad, you're with the ducks," she says, then makes a verbal note as to the grave location and remarks on all the fresh flowers that line the markers.

Headed back to town to the church hall, Cindy says, "He missed Christmas."

On our way to the church hall we notice some Air Force planes parked in a lot somewhere.

We arrive at the luncheon and Cindy later plays a couple of childhood games with our great nephew Joshua like our dad used to play with us. It occurs to me the importance of passing on good childhood memories like this.

More of those special times come flooding back to me, good memories I had blocked out. The more I remember, the more I remember.

Dad would be proud that his traditions got remembered.

I tell his minister and his wife about the dreams I kept having about Dad this last year and how they must have meant something. Expecting them to react in sync, they instead just give me a blank look and I realize I should have not mentioned it.

Throughout the trip my sisters and I wondered at one point Dad's new friends would ask us why we stayed away and if they thought we were just slacker daughters.

"You know they're talking about it," I told Cindy's girlfriend at one point to which she agreed.

Just as I was finishing dessert the minister's wife asked, "So, had you seen your dad recently?"

And there it was, hanging like a pinata in the air, waiting for me to do something.

"No, it had been awhile," I said, then hurriedly got up to clear my plate before this Pandora's Box could be opened.

Debby told me that she was on the other side of the room when asked by a church friend of Dad's: "So, had you been looking for your dad for awhile or what?" to which she replied, "Yeah, we had been looking for him for a long time."

After the lunch we headed back to our hotel, check out, and checked into a closer one to the airport since we were leaving early the next morning.

That night I have some nightmares but I'd been having such dreams all my life. Then I dream my dad wakes up from his coma.

Jan. 4: I am headed home and on my flight there are some Air Force guys, one of whom is sitting next to me on the plane. Near the end of the flight the flight attendant gets on and acknowledges these men are on the plane and everyone claps for them.

When I get home that night I turn on the TV and notice that one of the old Pink Panther movies is on cable. Dad loved those movies and we used to go see them when they came out at the theatre.

I buy the February Glamour at the checkout counter and notice there's an article about a guy who suffers a stroke and survives, goes through a divorce, and goes into rehab. Unlike Dad though, he had brain activity and could communicate with his eyes and writing. I email him and tell him about Dad and about how inspirational the article was. He responds, surprisingly and tells me in a nice way to live each day to the fullest and make the most of it.

He says that's what he's learned from his stroke.

Jan. 5: I talk to a doctor friend of mine and relay my dad's story to him. He tells me that though someone told me the hearing is the last thing to go and that my dad might still have heard me through his coma, that that's just something the doctors tell the family to comfort them.

"But, then again," my doctor friend says. "You never know."