Basketball, Basketball

"Keep living your life out loud." words of wisdom courtesy of Chris McQueeney

photo courtesy of Sports Blog Moment 

"Basketball, basketball..." is what echoes in my mind when I remember my fathers final days. I have yet to grieve, or fully accept, his death. But today is a good day to begin.  

"Great weather, if you're a duck," is how my father would sum it up - a weekend full of damp drizzle mixed with spouts rain.

I stay inside, surf through pictures and video's of him, wishing I had more.

When I'm not doing this, I'm surfing the cancer discussion boards, gathering stories and information from those who are battling the disease.

Living with the fear of cancer is my next big hurtle.

"We'll have to watch you closely," said my doctor.  

"What are you looking for?" I ask. 

"Primarily ovarian cancer, colon cancer, and - because you had a melanoma on your back and breast cancer in front - lung cancer. Your odds of getting cancer in the next ten years are..."

"STOP!!!" I shout.   

Tonight is the NCAA Women's semi-finals college basketball game. It is Notre Damn vs UConn. The same matchup we saw at our last, live, game together. 

I don't remember who won, but it must have been UConn. My father idolized their head coach, Geno Auriemma, and his "girls" were unstoppable. 

 photo via AP

Maya Moore, Sue Bird, Diana Taurasi, and Tina Charles were some of his favorites. When he spoke of them they sounded more like daughters then players.  I'm certain he did this to make me jealous. And it worked.

When I think of how he lived, I have memories that stretch miles. When I think of how he died - at home, peacefully - I reflect on his final three days...  

On the Friday before his death, my father asks to see Jackson - his great grandson. When I tell him Jackson is at school he repeats, "Jackson at school, Jackson at school..." over and over again. 

When Jackson comes home from school, my father turns his head towards him, and repeats, "Basketball, Basketball." 

Jackson loves basketball. His backyard hoop rests just outside my father's bedroom window. Jackson takes great grandpa's cue, and goes outside to shoot some hoops. 

My fathers eyes, ears and mind, are alert, as he focuses on the bounce, bang and swish of basketball, basketball.

On Saturday, my father turns towards me and says, "Lindsay, Lindsay." 

I text my daughter and tell her that Grandpa wants to see her. When she arrives his eyes tear, his mouth quivers, as he repeats, over and over again, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

On Sunday, my father tells me, "Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania."

I know exactly what he means. 

My husband is in Pennsylvania visiting his family and I am convinced I am better off without him.  I am convinced he doesn't love me enough, but my father knows he does.

I listen to my father, call my husband, and ask him to come home.

My relationship with my sister, my fathers only other living child, had been strained for many years. She is on her way here and I am dreading it. To me, she is the enemy.

When she arrives, we take turns sitting beside him - stroking his hair, clutching his hand, replaying memories of childhood mischief and merriment.

As the day grows dark, after the priest delivers his last rights, my sister reads him passages from her bible and I read him Dr. Seuss.

He waits.  He waits until it is just my sister and I, alone together.  He waits until the strain lifts and the laughter is sincere.  He waits for us to giggle, as little girls do. As, once upon a time, we often did. 

And then, after three, deep, gasps of air, he leaves. 

I close his eyes. 

I kiss his forehead. 

I leave while his skin is still pink and warm.

I leave holding my sister hand. I instantly understand, that we are the last, living part of him.

I leave with tears and a smile.

Writing about my father is a reoccurring theme. Play Date for Dad is my favorite. 

xo, MOnkeYME