Southern Legitimacy Statement: Mary Sturgill bleeds Carolina blue. Though her journalism career has carried her across the US, every mile traveled was a winding road leading her back home to the South. After a stint in Southeast TX, Mary made her way to Columbia, SC in 2014. She’s lived in Greenville, SC for six years now. Each move gets her closer to the North Carolina mountains where she grew up.
On Becoming an Orphan
“A word of advice. When the nurses come in to move him or anything, leave the room. The scream of pain will haunt you. You don’t want to hear that,” My sister Sandie said.
“Okay, you are probably right.” Since I couldn’t be at home with him to help with his care, I stayed with him almost every time he went into the hospital for an extended stay. My dad was a passive man, who often told you everything was okay when it was not. On numerous occasions, I found myself advocating for him—to be his voice with the staff there. I’m also sure when my siblings had their shifts, they probably stood up for him too, or they waited for me to do it. I was fine with playing the bad cop.
The only time I ever heard my father raise his voice during his numerous stays was once when a nurse assistant did not know how to help him from his bed to his wheelchair.
“This is not working, just put me back in the bed.”
“We’re almost there, sir.”
“No, we’re not, you’re doing it all wrong.” The pain and desperation my father felt came out in his voice.
“But this is the way I was shown.”
“Well, it’s wrong. You have to turn me the other way so I can back into it, not turn around. I have one fucking leg here. Can’t you see that?” His voice became louder. My father never cursed, so if he did, you knew he was very upset.
“But this is the way they taught us.”
“Are you not hearing me, or are you just stupid? That is not the way you do it.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just put me back in the bed.”
He fell back into the bed.
Tears welled up, but I couldn’t let him see, so I turned my back. Seeing him feel so helpless with no way to stop the pain made my heart hurt. The nurse’s assistant who refused to listen to him was young and obviously quite new to the job. My father rarely raised his voice, and I’d never heard him call anyone stupid or drop the “F” bomb.
He was at his limit.
*****
But that incident did not compare to the next one.
His cancer treatments had caused brittle bones, and as the home health nurse rolled him over, his femur snapped. I rushed up to Winston-Salem to be with him. My sisters and I alternated shifts at the hospital. It took a few days for the doctors to decide what to do. He was, after all, dying. In the meantime, every time the nurses had to move him, I took my sister’s advice and left the room. I have never heard the primal screams of pain like this. It was a scream that reached right inside you and pulled at your guts causing you to the feel pain, too. It echoed through the halls. I think the only way I wouldn’t have heard it was if I had left the city.
The dilemma: do we put him through surgery and then the healing process, or do we just keep him drugged up and comfortable as much as we could? Was it even fixable?
When my dad first got to the hospital, the orthopedics doctor explained the surgery. He would go in and correct the bone from the inside just like a regular break. My father looked at my oldest sister who was his medical power of attorney, and with tears in his eyes, he shook his head.
No.
We waited until an orthopedic oncologist could look at the case.
Three days later, the surgical oncologist came into the room to discuss the options. He could stabilize the leg enough to alleviate Dad’s pain.
“Do you want to do it?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” my dad replied. He looked at me and my oldest sister, Rosie, both in the room with him. “I feel stupid now.”
“Dad! We have new information today. This is a totally different thing than you were told the other day.”
“Yes, the other doctor was not an ortho oncologist. He knows his stuff,” my sister added.
So, my father went through yet another surgery. The list of traumas his body had endured was long: skin grafts when he was burned when I was in eighth grade, lung cancer surgery to remove part of his lung, quadruple bypass after his heart attack, and a leg amputation.
When he came out of recovery, he was moved to the palliative care floor of the hospital. The palliative care doctor came in on his morning rounds to explain to us what was happening.
“Mr. Sturgill, you are on the palliative care floor for a reason.”
“So, how much time do I have left?” Dad said.
“Well, it’s hard to say. Maybe weeks, maybe months. But probably only a few. So, you might want to start getting things in order.”
“All right.” He sighed with quiet resignation to the reality of the situation. His jaw tightened a bit, and tears welled up in his eyes, but never dropped to his cheeks. He did not look at me. Cancer was going to win this war, and he knew it.
Not quite sure what to do, I said, “Dad let me trim your beard. We need to get you looking sharp for these pretty nurses.” The photo I took after I trimmed his beard is my favorite photo I’ve ever taken of my dad.
We didn’t talk much that day. Just matter of fact questions and answers, but mostly we just sat quietly contemplating what we had just heard. I had no idea what to say to make it better. What do you say to someone who was just told they were about to die?
After a few days, he was released to go home. That’s where he wanted to be.
Right before he died, I went to stay with him again at my grandmother’s house. During that time, I kept to myself except for the time I spent with him alone. If anyone came in, I retreated outside or to a chair with my phone in hand.
At night, we sat up and talked.
“What are you looking at, Dad?”
His hand was making a motion as if he was painting. “That painting is all wrong.”
“Which painting?”
“The owl.” He had painted the owl for my grandmother several years ago. It now hung on the wormy chestnut paneling in the living room to the right of the TV.
“How would you change it?”
“It needs to be moved. I need to see it better. Take down those pictures and move them there.” He gave me directions. “The wall is not symmetrical, and it’s all wrong.”
“Dad, I can’t move Grandma’s pictures around. We’ll ask her in the morning.”
“Well, I’m tired of looking at a wall that’s not right,” he said, not hiding the frustration. Then he fell silent for a minute.
A few moments later, through the dark, came the whisper. “I’m scared.”
“Why are you scared, Dad?” I thought if I could get him to talk about it, it might help.
“Because I’ve done some things in my life. I wasn’t there for you guys the way I should have been.”
For years, I was angry at him for not standing up for us to our stepmother, for never telling me he loved me or expressing pride in my accomplishments until I graduated from college.
One time several years prior, I asked him why he had never checked on me after I went away to college.
“Because you were so independent. I knew you would be okay. You were not the one I worried about.”
“Well, maybe you should have worried about me some,” I said. “There have been times when I was not okay. And I felt like I didn’t matter to you, or to anyone. So, I sunk myself into trying to be perfect, to be successful, all in the hopes that you would notice me, and care about me.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
We hugged, and that was the day I decided to drop my anger at my father for not putting us first, for not giving me what I felt I had needed. I also now know that my father was very proud of me and expressed that to anyone who would listen.
On the eve of his passing, I could honestly say, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You did the best you could.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dad, it’s all right. We love you so much. You are going to be just fine. You are saved, and you have been a good person. You’ve helped so many people over the years. So, I think you’re going to the good place.”
The morphine kicked in, and he closed his eyes and slept.
Many people know my father, John Sturgill, as the wonderful artist with the amazing ability to capture light and depth in his beautiful paintings. But that light and depth just symbolizes how he lived his life. He was a light to all who needed a safe place, whether it was a place to stay or advice, or food from our garden. If he had it, and you needed it, it was yours. Although he had six kids, he had so many more who he was a father figure to, so many who loved him like we did. He loved all mankind, no matter what. His heart was open, and his mind was amazing. His depth of knowledge astounded me. There was nothing he could not do or fix or figure out. Everything I know how to do, from fixing my washer, to building a coffee table, with one of the windows of my great grandmother’s house, it all came from him. He saw beauty in everything in ways I will never comprehend. He was a teacher, who taught others how to build musical instruments, beautiful pearl inlay, and art.
“Oh God, oh God,”
“Daddy are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“In my soul. My soul hurts for things I’ve done.”
“I think your soul is going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine. I know I’ll be okay. The family will be okay.”
“I’m just thinking about granddaddy.”
“What are you thinking?”
“He died of lung cancer too.”
“But he smoked his entire life, even when he lied and said he wasn’t smoking, and I caught him in the basement.”
Moments later I realized that he was talking about something more serious. And instead of letting him talk, I made a joke. I still feel awful for making that joke.
He closed his eyes, and did not open them again.
The next morning, the hospice nurse checked his vitals and said, “You all might want to say your goodbyes, and sometimes, it’s helpful if you let them know it’s okay to go.”
Sometime in the afternoon, his breathing changed. It wasn’t quite the death rattle I’d experienced when my grandfather died, but it was a significant change. I called in my sister, RuthAnn. She was a nurse. She took his vitals again, and with a slight nod, looked at me knowingly, then lowered her head. She put her stethoscope back in her bag, and I gave her a hug. It wouldn’t be too long now.
That afternoon, I stood back while the grandchildren and then their parents said goodbye. I wanted to be alone with my father when I said mine.
Earlier that morning, Rosie had told me, “I think he’s waiting to make sure you are okay.” I had recently gone through my own trauma and was working to deal with PTSD.
So, after everyone walked out of the room, I leaned over my father and whispered into his ear.
“Dad, I love you so much, and I know you are in so much pain here. I want you to know that I will be okay. I am making good progress, and I am going to come back even better than I was before. So, it’s okay if you go.” I squeezed his hand, kissed his forehead. The clock glowed 6:21 PM.
