On Mortality

Unlike many of my fellow twenty-somethings, I have never felt invincible. My own mortality has always been a certainty. I can’t pinpoint the exact cause of this life-long absolute — maybe it is that my two-day old sister died when I was only three, perhaps it was the grueling time spent waiting on the results of my tumor biopsy in sixth grade to see if I had cancer, possibly it has something to do with the fact that I have had something wrong with my health almost every year of my life since that tumor; regardless, I have always been keenly aware that on some unpredictable day, my life will end.

While my own death has never been a question, the idea of losing one of my parents has always been unrealistic to me. I’ve always felt that they would always be there. Maybe I viewed them as gods — beings that don’t adhere to the restrictions mortality places on us. There’s never been a real reason to think that one day, my mom and dad won’t be there to answer my calls. Even when I watched friends and acquaintances my age lose their parents, I always trusted that no harm would come to my own.

– – – –

October 8th, 5:30 AM

Where on earth is my pillow? How do I keep losing that thing? Good grief, what time is it? I hope it’s not one AM again. I can’t keep losing this much sleep. I should maybe Google things to help me sleep through the night.

Unable to find my pillow, I roll over and pick up my phone to check the time.

Good. It’s 5:30. I’m not losing that much — why do I have three missed calls from Mom? She knows I don’t wake up this early. I’ll call back later—

My phone buzzes, indicating a new text message. My eyes, still adjusting to the light of the screen, make out only the words “heart attack.” My own heart stops. My grandfather had a heart attack when I was young. His own mother died from a heart attack. Thinking the worst for my granddad, I immediately call my mom. She begins before I can even utter a greeting.

“Your father is having a heart attack. I don’t want you to worry. He’s going to be fine. The cardiologist just got here. They should know in an hour if they will have to do surgery or if a stent will fix it. We’re at St. Thomas in the ER.”

Too tired to fully process what is happening, I ask a few more questions about what I can do to disseminate the message to the rest of my family and assure her that I am on the way to the hospital. Groggily, I hang up the phone. Ten seconds that seem more like ten years pass.

Oh, God, no. Please no. My father is having a heart attack. I haven’t had enough time. There hasn’t been enough time. I have to get up. Should I shower? No time. My hair is disgusting. I’ll shower. My dad… no. This isn’t right. No. I’m dreaming.

I glance back down at my phone, which confirms that my nightmare is one reality I cannot wake up from. I look to my left and see my sleeping husband.

“Justin, we have to go. Get up! We have to leave. Dad’s having… a heart attack. I can’t…. breathe…. not enough time…. no time…. I haven’t had enough time…. I have to shower…. get dressed…. what do you wear when your dad is having a heart attack? Oh, God, no… what am I saying? Let’s go! Get up!”

My words come out less frequently and more incoherently as I begin to sob uncontrollably. It is incredibly difficult to put on shoes when you are sobbing uncontrollably.

I finally manage to get dressed, and we leave for the hospital. By the time we arrive, my mom has already informed me the cardiologist has found two blockages — one at 95% and one at 80%. He has placed a stent in the 95% blockage that began the whole ordeal. My father is awake and recovering in a room. I slowly walk to the door, stop, then turn to my husband. Although I know my father is no longer in any immediate danger, a new fear creeps into my already panicked mind.

“Justin,” I whisper, my eyes wide. “I’m scared. What if my dad looks… old?”

The words sound silly coming out of my mouth, all things considered. The man just had a heart attack, and he’s okay. I should be thrilled. 

Why did I just ask that? But really… what if he looks old? He’s had wrinkles and grey hair for years… but I’ve never thought of him as old.

I am afraid that if he looks old, he will leave me sooner.

“I just… there hasn’t been enough time.”

– – – – –

My dad spent the day with more people checking in on him than I could count. We talked; we laughed; I cried much more than I thought was possible. Later this week, the doctors will fix his second blockage with another stent. I don’t have enough time.

As much as I love and admire him, he is not a god. As certain as I am that I will die one day, and as much as I hate to write it, I am now, sadly, certain that one day my dad will die too. And there isn’t enough time.

My father was raised by his epileptic, single mother. His own father left him, missing out on the opportunity to know the greatest man in the whole world. From an early age, my father took incredible care of his mother. He got dinner for her. He bathed her when she could not bathe herself. While most people his age were still being taken care of by their parents, he was working. He was taking his mother to the hospital. I can’t say for certain, but I imagine it to have been very lonely at times.

My dad then became a father to six children and foster parented countless other children. He worked around the clock to provide me and my siblings with more than we deserved. He didn’t complain. He just worked and cared for us.

My papa bear has spent his entire life selflessly caring for everyone else, and in turn he has given up so many things. He didn’t have the chance to be a carefree young adult. He has worked tirelessly his whole life just to give to others.

And I don’t have enough time. There is not enough time in the world for me to give my father everything I want for him. I had the opportunity to take him to see Frankie Valli recently, and it was one of the best nights of my life. I was able to give my father the experience to see a singer that he has loved since he was young — an experience that he wasn’t able to have when he was my age, because he was too busy working and providing for others.

I want to be able to continue sharing these experiences with him — ones that he had to pass up when he was my age. I want him to know that all of his hard work has been seen and that it is appreciated more than I can ever put into words. Even if I had all the time in the world, there could never be enough time for me to give him all that I think he deserves.

With my father’s second stent procedure hovering over the week, I am once again reminded that I don’t have all the time that I once thought I did. I know he is alright, but I also know that all of our days are limited. With the time that I do have, I would like to write my father’s eulogy.

We wait until after people are dead to eulogize them. We wait until they can no longer hear us to say how we really feel. There is not enough time for me to wait. As morbid as it may seem, I want to be certain that my father knows how I feel before our time runs out.

Eulogy for the still living (hallelujah!) David Frensley

When I was a little girl, I’d come home from school, and I’d wait. My father spent his whole day building car parts at Nissan —  hard labor that gave him calloused hands and made him seem strong to me. I would wait for those calloused hands to open the door, and I would run to it in anticipation of a big bear hug that only the best papa bear could give. My father’s calloused hands have carried me along my entire life. They have picked me up when I couldn’t pick my own self up. His calloused hands have pushed me forward when I felt like I couldn’t move forward on my own.

My father has the kindest eyes. I look into them, and I know I am safe. I know I am loved. I know I can trust him with anything. He supports me in anything I want to do. He encourages me to be more than I am. I look in his eyes, and I know that he believes I can be anything, even when I know I can’t.

My father is always patient, always kind. He loves like no other. My father shows his love through service. He is always willing to assist anyone without grumbling or complaining. He never turns anyone who needs help away. He always serves with a smile.

My father has spent his whole life taking care of others without complaint. Over the years, he’s missed out on a lot of things because of that, but I can guarantee that if he had the chance, he’d make the same decisions all over again. He does not know how to be selfish. As a result of his selfless love, he has more people who love him than he even knows.

My father is hilarious. His humor is unexpected. It shows up in the strangest of places, hangs awkwardly in the air like only dad jokes can, and then explodes with uncontrollable fits of giggles.

My father had a heart attack. It was a miserable experience for all of us, but some good came from it. I have always known that no one can compare to my papa bear, but I am biased. The number of people who expressed their concern through phone calls, visits, and messages proved to me that I am not wrong. My father is a great man. He is dearly loved by everyone he meets. It’s hard not to love someone who will do anything for you with no questions asked.

I love my dad more than I could ever say. There are not enough words in the world — there is not enough time in the world— to express what my father means to me. And while it is important to speak how we feel, to tell the ones who mean the most to us how much we care, sometimes the unspoken things are far sweeter.

– – – –

October 8th, early evening

I am sitting silently in a chair by my father’s hospital bed. People have been in and out of his room all day, and he has not had a chance to rest after his heart attack. Finally, there is some silence. My mother has climbed into the bed next to him. She’s had a long day too. They are holding hands. Their eyes have just closed. They are finally able to get a little sleep. There is no sweeter feeling than knowing that those eyes will reopen, that this is not the last night my parents will be able to hold hands and doze off together.

I look at my father’s calloused, old hands. I remember holding them this morning, never wanting to let them go.

My father does look a little older, but not as old as I feared. There is still a lot of youth behind those eyes. I can never give my father all that he deserves. I like to think that he knows I would give him the universe if I could, but I know my father doesn’t want the universe. Those unspoken things — time spent together, holding his sweet, calloused hands — they are far greater than the universe. We still have some time, and I will use it as wisely as I can.