Wednesday, Dec 2: 3:07pm
I received a text from my mother to all the children. My dad had began choking after having a great morning, and they weren't going to intubate again. They were just making him comfortable. This was it. It was time.
My father was born on August 25, 1952 in Bryan, Texas. He would tell us stories of growing up and working in the fields and whatnot. The "walking to school up hill both ways barefoot in the snow" story, but like, the Mexican version. He was the youngest of 7. Seven. That's a lot of kids. Back then, they didn't have no tv, I guess. He graduated from Bryan High School, where he played football. He loved to talk about football. And HATED the Dallas Cowboys. And loved to make sure I knew that.
I get to the hospital around 3:45pm. Walk in and he is awake. He's using a breathing mask, but still noticeably trying hard to breathe. My mother, who had been by his side since his bout with the West Nile Virus in 2011, was there. Yea, remember that one? When the mosquitoes were trying to kill e'rbody? Now it's just stubborn, unmasked folks. But I digress... I walk over to the bed and say hello. He looks at me, and I could tell he recognized me, but couldn't speak. I look at the monitors to see his vital numbers What do these numbers mean? Which is the heart? What does this 102 mean? Slowly, that number began to decrease. 100....99....96.....94....
My mother and father met each other at a bowling alley. My aunt invited her sister and her husband invited a coworker of his to join them. They were married on May 27, 1972. Less than a year later, Greg was born. Less than a year after that, Secilia was born. And just over a year after that, Manuel Ray was born. A couple years later, my dad was going to get a vasectomy and he and my mother decided to have one more. And 6 years after my brother was born, here I come. Growing up in the DeLeon household was meager. We didn't have money for vacations and whatnot. The only "vacations" we took were to softball tournaments and when my brother graduated from boot camp in San Diego. But we never really "needed" for anything. My parents made something out of the nothing we had and it was fantastic. To a fault, my dad had no concept of money. One of the most GENEROUS people in the world - if he had $2, you both had $1.
86....84....80.... now I'm staring at it. This practical countdown is making my heart race. My whole family is there and I am sitting on the couch, not able to look at him. He keeps looking around the room at all of us and still unable to speak. I know he's wondering why we're all there. If only he knew that it was to say goodbye.
76....75....72....
Dad was stubborn. And a bit of an ass hole. BOY, was he stubborn. And my mother tells us all the time we are the same way. I don't believe her; proving her point. Diagnosed with diabetes circa 1991, it was obvious when his blood sugar was high. "Did you take your pill?! Dang!" My mother knew him better than anyone. He was a stubborn ass hole, sure. But he was so hilarious. My dad had his own version of, "that's what she said".
"I'm going to come in the back door."
"E'scue me?" or "Uh uh". Quick. So witty. So witty, it was almost frustrating. I'll miss that most of all.
50....49....38....36.... and we are all gathered around the bed. They removed all of the tubes, all of the IVs, all of the mess so we could gather without all the drama attached to him. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.
I was so angry at my father for so long. There were things he did that were so hurtful and angry. Mostly had to do with his love of alcohol, but nonetheless painful. I was angry for what he did to my mom. I was angry for not being around a lot. I was angry because he made it obvious that he didn't want to be home. I would try to find relationships in people that would fill his spot. Typical "daddy issues". It wasn't until I made changes for me that he had I started to develop a real relationship.
32...28....27....24.... they want to move him to a different floor now. Since he is in ICU still, they want to make sure we are all safe, and we have the privacy we need. To say goodbye.
My father loved music. We shared that, for sure. We would talk about songs, listen to tapes and write down lyrics, and SING all the time. He was in bands here and there all throughout my life. He invited me to one practice of his where he wanted me to sing a song for a gig that was coming up. I was about 23 and I was so very nervous. I told my dad that my friends and I had been doing karaoke, but he'd never heard me sing. I had to prove, not only to the band, but more importantly to HIM - my inspiration, my motivation - that I was good enough. After squeezing out, "Neon Moon", and listening to them rehearse, I drove us home.
"I've never heard you sing like that. It was really good - I'm so proud of you."
My siblings and I went up to the 6th floor to wait for him to get there. To say goodbye. And I'm not ready. We sit in the waiting room and it's hot. The furniture is shit. I hate that the nurses are in the other room are laughing. Don't they know what the fuck is happening?! Don't they know what a fucking great man he was?! Why can't they just shut up!!
A small nurse comes in the waiting room. Looks around and softly says, "DeLeon?"
"He wouldn't make it up here. He's back in the room on the second floor." I'm not ready. I'm not ready.
As we walk into room 214 in ICU, at Baylor Scott & Rite in Waxahchie, Texas on Wednesday, December 2, 2020...
2... "No count"...
He's gone.
The man that taught me how to drive. The man who bought me the most RIDICULOUS toys I wanted just because I wanted them. Like, who wants a calculator? The man who fixed every car I owned since i was 15. The man who told me that he loved me at the end of every conversation. The man that taught me to shake the hand of everyone in the room I walk into. The man that made me so angry, I cried. The man that made me laugh so hard, I cried. The man that my mother loved with all of her heart, that she spent the past 8 years right by his side, making sure that he never felt alone.
He is gone.
"Though you can't see or touch me, I'll be near, and if you listen with your heart, you'll hear al my love around you. Soft and clear, and then, when you must come this way alone, I'll greet you with a smile and say, 'Welcome Home'."
Hug your parents a little tighter next time you see them. And give them one for me.
Until next time...
