The SKY is FALLING

I'll have this memory from time to time. The memory I have is of a man's voice. He hums a melody for a couple of bars and then sings “Stay lady stay. Stay with your man awhile. Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile.” Those lyrics are from a song by Bob Dylan ( Lay Lady Lay ).Except Bob Dylan's voice is much higher pitched. The voice in my memory is much lower and deeper. It was my Dad's voice. He loved that damn song so much, and he would play the 45 records of it over and over at nauseam. He played that record so much he had worn it out. Eventually, all it would do is skip after a few seconds into the song. I know in my soul that my Dad really did love my Mom, just as much if not more than he loved that song. But I imagine that just like wearing out that beloved song, he somehow wore out the love of his life. In the final days of my parent's marriage (just before my Mom would leave him forever ), my Dad would sing that Dylan verse to my Mom. He usually sang to her after an argument, which my Mom would most likely win because Dad always seemed to give up and let her have her victory. Because of this inability to stand up for himself, I would eventually become familiar with the word “LOSER”. Mom would use it often and sometimes it felt as if she used it more than his Catholic name ( Donald-Francis.) But no matter how upset she was with him, he still tried to mend fences by singing that verse to her. In an attempt to melt her frigid heart with a romantic song, once again he would prove to be the Loser. A Loser in the quarrel and a LOSER in the apology.name ( DonaldFrancis.) But no matter how upset she was with him, he still tried to mend fences by singing that verse to her. In an attempt to melt her frigid heart with a romantic song, once again he would prove to be the Loser. A Loser in the quarrel and a LOSER in the apology. I remember as a confused little boy asking my Mother why she called him that word and what did it mean? She answered that question with a swift smack across my face. I would eventually understand the meaning of that word years later when my ex-fiance started to use the same word with me in heated arguments. But I never understood why Mom felt that way about Dad. I idolized that man. After all, he was a talented artist/sculptor, he traveled the world in the Air Force, and he fathered six children who adored him. His Aunt and his Mother even insisted that he come and live with them after my mother sent him away. I suppose that I was too young and naive to understand that there is a fine line between adoration and pity. Some years ago, I was experiencing a memory of my Dad's voice singing that old song to my Mom. I remember hearing that voice fade away as I woke from a dream. When I opened my eyes I realized that I was napping in a chair, in my Father's hospital room. I had spent all week there, waiting for a miracle. The sound and rhythm of the song I heard in my dream had a haunting likeness to the rhythm of the life-support machinery that was keeping him alive. Now was the dream of my Dad singing a memory triggered by the similar rhythm of his noisy medical equipment? Or maybe something else was happening to me? Perhaps this was my Dad's way of saying goodbye since his body was in a coma and wouldn't let him do it? If this hadn't convinced my family that he was trying to communicate to us, what happened next definitely would. As I rested in that chair and stared out into the cold February night, I started to drift off to sleep once again. Half sleeping with shut eyes, I heard the voice of a male nurse. He softly said “There's a storm coming. Better be on your way before it's too late. The sky is falling.” I'll never forget those words, as long as I live. The day-nurse who was tending my father in the ICU had already gone home for the night. I wanted to make sure that the male nurse was aware that Dad's breathing tubes were making an odd sound like maybe they needed to be adjusted. I didn't want him to stop breathing because of a blockage in those tubes. So I started to ask the male nurse about it, but when I turned around to speak with him I guess he had stepped out of the room already. I decided to take his advice and head home. Not before making a quick stop at the nurse's station to speak with him about Dad's tubes. I hoped I could soften him up a little by thanking him for waking me up before the snowstorm made the trip home impossible. Then I approached the female nurse seated at the ICU nurse's station. She asked if I need something and I replied by asking to speak to the gentleman who was going to be on the overnight shift caring for my Father. The woman told me that she was alone in that unit overnight. Also, she told me that there were NO male nurses on duty in the ICU all that night, only her. She finally stated to me that nobody had entered Dad's room for hours. Just then I was consumed by a feeling of relief and rushed back to Dad's room. I thought maybe it was his voice I heard talking about the storm, and maybe he had managed to wake from the coma. However, when I approached his hospital bed, he was still unconscious. I still don't know who or what tried to worn me that night. Was it someone visiting another patient in the ICU? Maybe it was my Dad's way of giving me one last piece of fatherly advice before he passed away later that night ( when doctors took him off life-support ). Or maybe it was one of those voices in my head, all my doctors have been asking me about the last few months? I hope that I will learn the truth someday. Maybe I will be able to do the same thing for my Nephews when it's my time to go. In closing, I think it's important for me to make mention of the past history of me and my Dad. After my mother threw him out, he moved into my grandmother's house. Mom wouldn't allow us kids to see him and he was warned to stay away from us. I would still sneak to my Grandmother's to spend time with him when my Mom was at work. One of my favorite things that Dad would do was read me stories. His favorite story he read to me was about Chicken Little. Maybe because way back when I was very young ( and still a cute little kid ) he taught me the part in the story where Chicken Little would say. “The sky is falling!” Then we would both scream it out together. Ironic, right? I wonder if that was Dad's way of trying to stop me from being devastated, somehow knowing his end was near. A clever mention to something he read to me as a child. Hoping to distract me from the pain of losing him forever, for my sake. What a brave and selfless thing to do. I always remember that lesson and hope to live up to his example. Thanks Dad