Remembering Dad

Today would have been Dad's 80th birthday.  Although a little sad, it brings back great memories.  To honor him, I am reposting below Rachel's memoir that she wrote of Dad soon after he died.

I miss you Dad, but know that you are truly healed and living at the foot of Christ, having a grand ole time!

One of my favorite pics, of Daniel and Dad walking down the mountain up at the homeplace in WV.

"Zippidee-doo-da" - Rachel's Memoir about my Dad

Rachel wrote this memoir for a school project. It is about my dad, Louis Wright, who died last year on May 18, 2008.
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At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, the last place in the world I wanted to be was a hospital. And yet, there I was, sitting in an uncomfortable, wooden chair in the congested waiting room outside of ICU. The only other soul in the room was a wrinkled old man, who lazily slumped on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Every few minutes he would let out a groan or belch, or some other disturbing sound. Other than that, the only noises were the various beeping hospital machines and the sound of nurses speeding hastily down the hallway.

I shouldn’t have been complaining, for I had volunteered to come with my dad on his weekly trip. Two weeks earlier, my grandpa had been rushed to the ER. The doctors investigated, and found that something had gone wrong from a previous surgery and he was in need of a leg amputation.
“Young lady,” a voice whispered behind me. I spun around in the chair to see the face of a fair-skinned, blonde nurse. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. “He’s ready to see you,” she gently spoke. When I stood up, she gestured to me to follow her, and I trailed behind the young nurse down a long, narrow hallway. Eerie sounds reverberated in the air, and a sudden nervous pain surged through my stomach. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she stopped outside of a room, pushed aside the curtain, and led me inside.

The first thing I noticed was the bed. It was a large white mass of tangled chords and tubes stretched out across the tiny room. Every couple seconds, one of the machines would let out a faint beep, and a neon light would flash across the screen. Then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and peered around to see my father, standing with a solemn look on his face. He nodded toward the bed, and hesitantly, I took a few steps in that direction. I gasped upon reaching the side of the bed, for I had never seen a more frightening sight in my life.

My grandpa had been sick for over a year. He often portrayed a lazy, cantankerous old man who only got up out of his chair to use the bathroom, and he always had something to gripe about. But never, in all my life had I seen my grandfather looking so low. His face was gray, his skin peeling, and he looked like he had aged 50 years. All sorts of tubes ran up through one nostril and out the other, and he was wearing an oxygen mask to keep him breathing. The sight was nauseating.

When he finally opened his eyes, it took him a few minutes to notice that I was awkwardly standing at his bedside. His eyes gradually moved up to my face, and when he saw me, he smiled. I smiled back, and choked out a few words. When he saw the nurse, his eyes lit up and in a very weak, scratchy voice he said, “Come meet my niece. See my beautiful niece? Come see her. This is my niece.”
“No, Grandpa, I’m your granddaughter, remember?”
“What a great niece I have. You’re a great niece.” He spoke enthusiastically, reaching out for my hand. I offered it too him, and felt his clammy fingers clasp around my warm ones. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I had trouble breathing. He didn’t know who I was at the moment, but that didn’t matter. I loved him, and was terrified that something might happen to my grandpa.

Days turned into weeks, and my grandfather hadn’t made much progress. Some days, we would get a call saying that he was fantastic, eating, sitting up, and laughing. But other days, the phone would ring with bad news on the other end, and my dad would faithfully pack his bag and make the two-hour drive to the hospital.

One warm Sunday afternoon, while my family was driving home from church, my mom’s cell phone rang. We all held our breaths as she flipped open the top and put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” There were a few moments of silence until she said, “Ok, we’re on our way.” Then, she slammed the phone shut and made a wide u-turn. From the back of the van, I could hear her muffled choking noises, and I knew she was crying.
“Who was it?” my little brother questioned.
“That was your dad. We’re going to Grandma’s house for a little while.” She didn’t tell us why, but I didn’t have to ask to know. My grandpa was dying, and that day, May 18, 2008, would be his last day with us.

The next few days passed as if through a blur. There were a lot of people and with them came a lot of food. Every ten minutes the doorbell would ring and some friend or neighbor would be standing there with an armload full of cakes, pies, sandwiches, and even 4-course meals. My grandma’s already tiny house became even smaller as relatives moved themselves in. No matter what direction you turned, someone would be sobbing or dabbing their red eyes with a tissue. The heavy blanket of sorrow and grief that hung in the air was inescapable.

Wednesday, the day of the funeral, was the first time I actually had the chance to think about everything that had happened. An old family friend stood up on the stage with his guitar and sang along to one of my grandpa’s favorite bluegrass songs. As I listened to the old man’s choppy notes, I began to think of my own grandpa’s songs.

My grandfather was very talented at playing the fiddle. Whenever we were at his house, he would pick up his instrument and let the bow glide across the strings. All of us grandchildren would dance around him in a circle, but he was the liveliest of us all. With his music, he was the happiest man in the entire world.

One of my favorite memories with this man was a time when I was younger, and we sat on the balcony of our hotel in Disney World, singing “Zippidee-doo-da” at the top of our lungs, without a care in the world. Our merriment was cut short, however, by a phone call from the hotel manager telling us about complaints from other guests. The two of us doubled over in laughter, and from that moment on, “Zippidee-doo-da” became our special song.

He also had a great sense of humor. His favorite quote, which he repeated quite often, was “Abraham Lincoln frayed the sleeves” and whenever he read to us, he’d turn the book upside-down and begin with “The name of this book is…book!” No matter how many times he reiterated this, I always found it hilarious.

The song that seemed to never end finally ended, and the old man stepped down off the stage and was replaced by an elderly preacher. I tried hard to listen, but my mind kept wandering. Glancing around the room, I noticed there were several people sniffing and sniveling, and others weeping with anguish. Like a lighting bolt tearing through the sky, I was suddenly struck with the realization of what I had been missing all along.

My grandpa wouldn’t have wanted everyone to be crying over his death, but remembering him and celebrating the long and wonderful life he had lived. He didn’t want anyone to remember him as the grouchy old man in the hospital bed, but as the spirited guy who was always making others smile with his jokes and songs. Even though he would be missed, his spirit and legacy would remain present, as long as we allowed it. And from then on I realized I didn’t have to be upset any more, because my grandpa would still be with me, if only in my heart, forever, and he wouldn’t ever have to suffer again.