The Longest Father's Day

          My brother never calls me, so when my phone rings on Thursday, June 9, 2011, and the caller ID tells me it’s Mark, I know this is not good. “We’ve taken him off all his medicine; he’s not eating or drinking, and he’s getting dehydrated. No urine output to speak of, and they say the increased mottling in his knees and feet looks ominous. They say he can’t last long like this. Maybe you ought to come.” He is talking about my dad, and you should know that I come from a family who is not given to overstatement, so his request could be interpreted, “If you’re comin', you better get here NOW!”

            Knowing this is likely the end, I get on the internet and order a plane ticket for Cedar Rapids, Iowa, for Friday, June 10. I pack a bag, including funeral clothes; Mickey takes me to Reagan, and I’m off. I arrive at O’Hare right on time at 12:39 pm. I look at the itinerary, and whew! I have time to use the bathroom and easily make it to Gate L5 for my 2:53 departure. I settle into place, take a deep breath, and wait. It gets to be about 2:45, and no American Airlines person is in sight, but a sign goes up saying Flight delayed, scheduled departure time 4:10. Oh boy! I take a walk, try to read a little, pray a little, buy a bottle of water, and sit back down. I look around and see a few travelers who look like they could be going to Cedar Rapids. I make eye contact with a kind looking young woman about the age of my daughter, and I ask, “Are you going to Cedar Rapids?” “I hope so” is her response.

            By now it’s 3:45, and still American Airlines personnel are conspicuously absent. Another sign goes up. Flight delayed. New departure time: 5:21. I begin to feel emotional. “What if they cancel this flight? I’ll sit here all night. I am NOT going out into this jungle to find a hotel room! Lord, please don’t let him die while I’m stuck in Chicago.” I call Mark who tells me Sharon is already in Cedar Rapids, but not to worry, she’ll spend some time with Nicole.

            I notice the Cedar Rapids lady watching me, and she finally asks if I’m OK. In my head I shout, “No, I’m not OK. My Dad is probably going to die while I’m stuck in this stupid airport!" I didn’t say that or anything like that, and I most certainly did not shout, but I did tell her my story. A little tearfully, I might add. We talk a little, and she tells me her name is Leah Wilsson and that she is a fund raiser for the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library in Cedar Rapids.

            Together we notice that at last an official looking person in a blue uniform arrives at the desk. I ask him when I can expect to get home. He, as if talking to a child, carefully explains that the flight may be cancelled due to maintenance issues. “MAINTENANCE ISSUES? Are you crazy? You expect me to believe that? I know how you operate. You’ve sold exactly 6 tickets to Cedar Rapids, and you don’t want to fly this crate for 6 paying customers so you find some mechanic with an oilcan, send him out to squint at the engine and squirt some oil on it. That’s what I know you’re doing!” I think all of this; I say none of it.

            Instead I sit down. Leah has watched this drama unfold. She comes, sits beside me, and explains, “My daughter’s birthday party is tomorrow, and I don’t plan to miss it. If they cancel this flight, I’m going to rent a car and drive to Cedar Rapids, and you are more than welcome to ride with me.” I nod, “Thank you.”

            Before we settle on this plan, we, along with a few other Iowans, are shuttled to another gate with the hope that we can get a flight to Cedar Rapids. That hope dies too, but a lady approaches Leah and says, “I couldn’t help but overhear your plans to rent a car. Is there any chance that my son and I could catch a ride too? We’ll help with the cost? I am a professor at the University of Iowa and this is my son who is a student.” Leah looks uncertainly at me. “Are you OK with that?”

            I glance sidelong at them. “Well, if they’re axe murderers, I guess I’ll arrive in heaven at about the same time as my dad.” And so I say, “If you’re Ok, I’m OK.”

            20 minutes later, the fearless Leah puts her phone, tuned to the GPS, on the dash board of a Buick LaCrosse, and we head west--the professor, the student, Leah Wilsson, and me.  We commiserate on the problem of traveling to small towns; we rehearse the scourge of a company like American Airlines; the professor and I solve the problems of the field of education; the student shows me some cool things on my new I-phone.  I tell Leah that my maiden name is Kouba and that I am a bona-fide Bohemie, and we talk about the museum, kolachies and other ethnic foods. Our conversation drifts to healthy food and organic gardening. I learn that in some small cities, residents can now keep hens. No roosters, of course, and we all agree that city dwellers would never tolerate pre-dawn crowing! The time passes quickly, and just before 11 we pull into a deserted Wal-mart parking lot, where the ever-patient Sharon is waiting for me.

            She deposits me at the door of my childhood home at about midnight. The house is dark, but the door is unlocked, and I slip in. From the hospital bed in the living room, I hear a feeble voice calling my name. Dad is waiting up for me! Just like the old days! I hold his hand and kiss his forehead goodnight. We hold no conversation tonight because, as everyone knows, Dad is stone deaf without his hearing aid! Apparently he had seen the car lights when Sharon brought me home.

            The next day is Saturday and when I get up, I see my brothers, Mark and Alan, Mom, and Dad in his wheel chair all sitting at the kitchen table. We exchange greetings, and then Dad announces, “I think I could eat something.” O-k-a-a-y! Mom fixes oatmeal, and he does indeed eat it. But we know what’s happening. Terminal patients often rally at the very end, act energetic, sit up and talk to loved ones, and all that. This must be what’s happening. But to our surprise, Dad is hungry for dinner too, and then supper, and then every meal for days! His color returns, his skin perks up, his eyes are clear. The hospice people give me credit for Dad’s new lease on life. “He would be gone, if you hadn’t come,” they say. I know this is likely not true, but, just the same, I’m so glad to be here.

            June 19 is Father’s Day, and we plan a party. We ask Dad what he wants to eat, and he says “Hot dogs!” Mom resists, saying he’s not supposed to have hot dogs. We say, “Mom, he’s 95 and terminal. He wants hot dogs, he get hot dogs!” So we have them along with all his favorites:  watermelon, and cantaloupe, and homemade ice cream! It is a lovely Father’s Day! Dad’s Father’s Day gift to me.

            And it was the gift that kept on giving. He was to live six more months, most of that time alert though very weak and failing. I returned twice more to reminisce a little and to say good-by and I love you. When the end finally did come, I wasn’t there, but I’m OK with that. I had the 6-month Father’s Day gift!