When Time Ran Out

Yesterday was Fathers Day. Dad had already been on my mind, as 2022 marks twenty-five years since his death. We tend to apply greater significance to various (sometimes random) measures of time. I suppose that a quarter-of-a-century counts as such a marker. Lewis passed away from cancer in August of 1997. I last saw him that June. It wasn't supposed to be the final occasion our paths crossed in life, but sometimes that's how things work out.

Dad had received his pancreatic cancer diagnosis in October of 1996. I learned of it that November, and began visiting with him regularly soon after. He lived in Springfield, but would travel -- with his wife and two-year-old son in tow - to Champaign and stay with my grandmother about every two weeks. That is where we would meet, talking about a variety of topics before the time ran out.

It was during the closing months of 1996 (and perhaps the early part of 1997) that I remember dad seeming somewhat upbeat. His doctors had recommended certain foods for him. He'd taken their advice, and been able to regain some of the weight he'd lost due to the illness. He had energy. He smiled fairly often -- probably more than a man dying of cancer ought to. One day, he gleefully talked about getting a classic car to tinker with and drive around during the next summer. I nodded hopefully, secretly concerned about him living that long.

Lewis did indeed live to see the summer of 1997, but there was no classic car. By that point, he'd begun to lose the weight he'd gained back. His cancer had spread, and he wasn't smiling much. The last time we saw each other was a pleasant-enough June Saturday at grandma's house in north Champaign. Dad sat in her back room, fairly still, looking shrunken compared to the big, strong man I'd known all my life. He spoke, but not as much as before. After an hour or two of visiting with him, I was leaving the back room, turned and looked back, and saw the small man sitting in a chair. He was looking ahead, seeming to be looking through something, his head tilted slightly down. He looked sad. That is the last earthly image I have of him.

During the next two months, Lewis's condition continued to deteriorate. He started using oxygen to help with his breathing. We were speaking on the phone at one point, and were making plans for me to visit him in Springfield. Travel to Champaign had become too difficult for him. He said, "I might not be able to talk much, but we can just sit together."

The night before I was to visit him, I went out with friends and got terribly drunk. Up late. Passed out and slept through a fair amount of the next day. It was most definitely on purpose, being unable to face the reality of a father's worsening health. I called him once most of the day had gone by, apologizing to him for not being able to make it. He said he understood. There was a judgment-free forgiveness in his voice. I hope it was genuine.

He died a few weeks later.

It wasn't until the immediate aftermath of dad's death that the phrase, 'I wish there had been more time,' began its residency inside my head. More time for what? I don't know for certain. Perhaps a myriad of things? More time to gain the strength to be more assertive with him. More time to learn how to be a more mature human being, a more mature son, someone who wouldn't hide behind an alcoholic binge and who would have gone to visit their dying father during his last days. Simply... more time.

Over the years I've learned that 'more time' is often a misnomer. Long-established relationships, particularly between people who've known each other for decades, are sometimes so solidified that it would be a miracle for there to be a breakthrough in their status quo. And, sure, additional time can lead to more maturity, but that is only really a luxury for the one left alive. So, the time we had together is the time we had.

That is sometimes the most difficult truth to reconcile on Fathers Day.