Barbie Perkins-Cooper, Author

Tag: July 6

  • Twenty-Two Years — In Memory of My Father

    Twenty-Two Years — In Memory of My Father


    Dearest Readers:

    On this date 22 years ago, at 5:45 pm I lost my father. Like today, July 6, 2021, it was a Tuesday. How do I remember it so well? Simply put, I think of him daily and when he was dying, I was moving towards his room at the convalescent center. I saw a nurse pushing an oxygen tank. She moved in the same direction as I did. Never did I realize she was going to my dad’s room until she placed her hand on the door.

    “Oh no,” I said. “That isn’t a good sign.”

    Nurses were inside. I heard them saying his name. “Mr. Perkins, wake up. Come on Mr. Perkins, wake up!”

    A nurse left the room, asking me to sit down. “Barbie, we can bring him back. Just tell us.”

    My chest ached as I struggled to inhale and exhale. “No. He doesn’t want us to bring him back. He’s a DNR.”

    For those who might not know, DNR means Do Not Resuscitate.

    “I can’t…I can’t ask you to do that. If he comes back, he’ll be so angry with me. I can’t…”

    I sat down, recognizing the moment had arrived for my father, Walter W. Perkins, to pass away and finally be with his identical twin brother, other siblings and his parents. No I cannot ask them to bring him back. For weeks he’s sat in his bed, or the rocking chair, reading his Bible. He’s been praying to die. I’ve heard him pray, ‘our heavenly father, I’m ready. Please take me home. I’m tired. Weak. Ready, I’m so ready to go Home. I’m so tired of this life.’

    I visited Sandpiper Convalescent Center daily, with exception of the times I was sick with bronchial asthma. During those times, I phoned, asking the nurse to please let him know I was sick and did not want to spread any germs. From mid-March, 1999, until the date of his death, when I arrived, he would not speak to me. Only nodding his head as he ate his dinner while reading the Bible. His roommate, Dudley, had difficulty speaking due to MS. He watched my dad, saying “He’s mean to you. He’s so mean.”

    I smiled, walking over to Dudley’s bed to touch his toes. He laughed such a welcoming laughter I almost cried.

    Fifteen minutes later, my husband arrived. “Are you ok?” He asked while hugging me tightly.

    “He’s gone. I knew this day was coming. Last night I awoke at 3:45 am from a nightmare about him dying, and now my vision is so real. He’s gone.”

    After Phil’s arrival, my memory is a fog of actions, including Phil would drive me home. He would come for Dad’s things later… Before we left I remember a nurse asking if I wanted to see Dad.

    She opened the door to his and Dudley’s room. Dudley was watching baseball. Dad was covered in a white sheet. The curtain pulled closed. His food tray was sitting in the corner of the room. Although Dad suffered with terminal esophageal cancer, he insisted on eating his food. “Everything else has been taken away,” he said angrily, before his death. The prediction of him regurgitating his food and choking to death was reality. Now, his body rested lifeless. I pulled the cover to his head back. Lifeless. His skin was a yellowish clay composition. His body was ice cold. Lifeless.

    My dad is gone. He’s in Heaven now, with his siblings and family. I hope he is happy.

    I kissed his cheek, whispering how much I loved him and how I would miss him. You are no longer sick. I hope you love Heaven and can be with your identical twin brother now. I love you.

    Twenty-two years. Still feels like yesterday to me.

    Today is a sad, selfish day for me since I cannot visit him. How I miss him. I pray today is a day of rejoice and happiness for him. I shall keep myself busy so I cannot think.

    Twenty-two years ago today, in the golden hours of mystical sunsets, I lost my father. I pray he is happy while knowing how much I miss him.

    Twenty-two years…

  • Reflections On July 6th of Every Year…

    Reflections On July 6th of Every Year…


    Dearest Readers:

    Today is a day of remembrance for me. On July 6, 1999, while walking into the nursing home to visit with my dad, he was slipping away. The story below is a remembrance written about him last year, on the anniversary of his homecoming. July 6, 2015, is the 16th anniversary of losing him.

    After losing my dad, what did I learn about the dying process, you might ask. Simple. I learned that when we lose a significant person in our lives, we must walk through the grief, embrace it, and move on with our lives. Believe me, it isn’t as easy as some people think. And so, today – I will share my thoughts and memories of someone who influenced my life, helping me to move on without him. Today is a day of much melancholy and gratitude to my dad. Words cannot express how much I miss him. Later, I will go outside and pray for God to give me guidance as I reminisce about my dad.

    Last night I sang “Dance With My Father Again,” at karaoke. in remembrance of him. After I sat down, two people came over to thank me. “That was so powerful,” both of them said, wiping tears from their eyes. I suppose I failed to recognize how powerful a performance can be to a singer, entertainer.

    On July 6 of each year, I remember:

    July 6 is always a day to remember for me. Why? Allow me to explain. During the stressful days of my dad’s terminal illness with esophageal cancer during December 1997 until his death on July 6, 1999, I have felt such a loss.

    I’ve had people tell me I need to move on. “Get over it. Life goes on…” Etc. ETC! It isn’t easy! Tomorrow is July 6, 2014 – exactly 15 years since the death of my dad. I remember the day as if it was yesterday. After a demanding day at work, I rushed to visit him like I did every day. I spoke to the nursing home earlier in the day. “Dad was doing fine,” they replied. “Fine!?!” If he’s in a nursing home he isn’t fine. Yes, he was as well as could be expected; nevertheless, over the last six months of his life, I watched his body slowly shutting down. First it was the weakness from esophageal cancer. His inability to retain his food. His legs grew weaker and he fell – LOTS. Each time the nursing home reported the falls to me like they are required. And each time, I prayed a sigh of relief. Just one more day. Please God, give us one more day.

    In March, his heart grew weaker, and I realized the end was near. I stopped praying for a miracle. In my nightly prayers, I prayed for God to find a special place for my dad, to use his talents, his voice, and yes – even his temper. Dad could be a tenacious man when he wanted to be!

    During my daily visits after March, I noticed Dad no longer walked me to the door, to kiss me goodbye. He simply waved his hand as he closed his Holy Bible. No longer were the visits welcoming or fun. He appeared to be angry at me, always waving me away after about 10 minutes of our time together. His roommate told me Dad was mean to me. “You deserve better,” Dudley said. “He is so mean. He should appreciate you.”

    I smiled at Dudley. “Don’t you understand,” I cried. “Dad is dying. He’s angry at life.”

    Dad and Dudley were the odd couple of Sandpiper Convalescent Center. They teased and complained, always trying to compete with each other. For a while, Dad had the upper hand since Dudley’s body no longer moved and he remained in the bed, or a special wheelchair. Dudley had difficulty with speech too, but after visiting Dad so often, Dudley and I were able to communicate without a problem. After March, Dudley had the upper hand as we watched Dad sit on his bed, or remain in his bed most of the time. Gone were his daily strolls with his walker.

    I suppose I was counting the days down, knowing my dad and I would not share another holiday together. No more birthday parties. No more Christmas trees, Thanksgiving and holiday dinners together. Tick. Tock…How I wish I could make this clock stop and save my dad.

    On the moment of his death, I was walking in the corridor of Sandpiper Convalescent Center. A nurse I recognized approached, pushing an oxygen tank. I remember speaking with her, saying Uh, oh. That isn’t a welcoming sign for someone. She nodded, never saying a word to me.

    I placed my hand on the door of Dudley and Dad’s room and so did the nurse. Quickly, she nodded, telling me not to come inside.

    I screamed.

    “Oh, Dear God, No. Please…please….Please God, NO!” I cried.

    Someone grabbed me, walking me to a chair and I sat down. I knew. The clock was stopping. My dad way dying.
    I heard a voice say, Barbie. We can bring him back.

    “No,” I cried. “He’s a DNR. I must honor his wishes.”

    Moments seemed like hours. At 6:15 a nurse approached me. “I’m so sorry. Do you want to say goodbye?”
    Yes, I nodded.

    I waited a few minutes for my husband to arrive and together, we walked into Dad’s room. Dudley was eating dinner. I could not speak to him. I touched my Dad – his body as cold as ice. His skin clammy. His eyes closed. I kissed him. Told him I loved him and I would never forget him. “You’re still here, inside my heart,” I cried.

    I have no idea what happened next. I was numb. Dumbfounded. How would I live without my Dad?

    After his funeral, I joined a grief therapy session and learned to move forward. Still, as the day of July 6 of each year approaches, I feel an incredible emptiness. Grief. Heartache. I ask myself, will this pain ever leave?

    I think not. July 6, 2015, is only hours away. I must keep myself busy, remembering my Dad, Walter W. Perkins, and the goodness inside of him. Yes, he had moments of temperamental ups and downs, but he was my dad. As a child, I always looked up to him. I held his hand. We sang. He taught me how to harmonize and he always reminded me to “Make this a good day.”

    I ask you how? How do I make each day a good day without my dad?

    When do we stop grieving over those we’ve loved and lost? When does the heartache end?

    After my dad died, I felt like an orphan. I have learned to move on and to recognize that each day is a gift. I plan to have a serious heart-to-heart discussion with my dad in the morning while drinking my morning coffee. I will lift my head high, looking into the Heavens and speak softly to my Dad. Yes, I will probably cry, but now, the tears are good, cleansing tears because I have learned to move forward. To make the most of every day. Today, July 6, 2015, is another day without my dad, but I am so thankful that I was there for him daily while he battled cancer. Yes, I miss you, Dad. I was blessed to share one more day. Thank you, God, for giving us one more day!

  • Reminiscing on July 6 of Each Year…

    Reminiscing on July 6 of Each Year…


    Dearest Readers:

    July 6 is always a day to remember for me. Why? Allow me to explain. During the stressful days of my dad’s terminal illness with esophageal cancer during December 1997 until his death on July 6, 1999, I have felt such a loss.

    I’ve had people tell me I need to move on. “Get over it. Life goes on…” Etc. ETC! It isn’t easy! Tomorrow is July 6, 2014 – exactly 15 years since the death of my dad. I remember the day, as if it was yesterday. After a demanding day at work, I rushed to visit him, like I did every day. I spoke to the nursing home earlier in the day. “Dad was doing fine,” they replied. “Fine!?!” If he’s in a nursing home he isn’t fine. Yes, he was as well as could be expected; nevertheless, over the last six months of his life, I watched his body slowly shutting down. First it was the weakness from esophageal cancer. His inability to retain his food. His legs grew weaker and he fell – LOTS. Each time the nursing home reported the falls to me, like they are required. And each time, I prayed a sigh of relief. Just one more day. Please God, give us one more day.

    In March, his heart grew weaker, and I realized the end was near. I stopped praying for a miracle. In my nightly prayers I prayed for God to find a special place for my dad, to use his talents, his voice, and yes – even his temper. Dad could be a tenacious man when he wanted to be!

    During my daily visits after March, I noticed Dad no longer walked me to the door, to kiss me goodbye. He simply waved his hand as he closed his Holy Bible. No longer were the visits welcoming or fun. He appeared to be angry at me, always waving me away after about 10 minutes of our time together. His roommate told me Dad was mean to me. “You deserve better,” Dudley said. “He is so mean. He should appreciate you.”

    I smiled at Dudley. “Don’t you understand,” I cried. “Dad is dying. He’s angry at life.”
    Dad and Dudley were the odd couple of Sandpiper Convalescent Center. They teased and complained, always trying to compete with each other. For a while, Dad had the upper hand since Dudley’s body no longer moved and he remained in the bed, or a special wheelchair. Dudley had difficulty with speech too, but after visiting Dad so often, Dudley and I were able to communicate without a problem. After March, Dudley had the upper hand as we watched Dad sit on his bed, or remain in his bed most of the time. Gone were his daily strolls with his walker.

    I suppose I was counting the days down, knowing my dad and I would not share another holiday together. No more birthday parties. No more Christmas trees, Thanksgiving and holiday dinners together. Tick. Tock…How I wish I could make this clock stop and save my dad.

    On the moment of his death, I was walking in the corridor of Sandpiper Convalescent Center. A nurse I recognized approached, pushing an oxygen tank. I remember speaking with her, saying Uh, oh. That isn’t a welcoming sign for someone. She nodded, never saying a word to me.

    I placed my hand on the door of Dudley and Dad’s room and so did the nurse. Quickly, she nodded, telling me not to come inside.

    I screamed.

    “Oh, Dear God, No. Please…please….Please God, NO!” I cried.

    Someone grabbed me, walking me to a chair and I sat down. I knew. The clock was stopping. My dad way dying.

    I heard a voice say, Barbie. We can bring him back.

    “No,” I cried. “He’s a DNR. I must honor his wishes.”

    Moments seemed like hours. At 6:15 a nurse approached me. “I’m so sorry. Do you want to say goodbye?”
    Yes, I nodded.

    I waited a few minutes for my husband to arrive and together, we walked in to Dad’s room. Dudley was eating dinner. I could not speak to him. I touched my Dad – his body as cold as ice. His skin clammy. His eyes closed. I kissed him. Told him I loved him and I would never forget him. “You’re still here, inside my heart,” I cried.

    I have no idea what happened next. I was numb. Dumbfounded. How would I live without my Dad?
    After his funeral, I joined a grief therapy session and learned to move forward. Still, as the day of July 6 of each year approaches, I feel an incredible emptiness. Grief. Heartache. I ask myself, will this pain ever leave?

    I think not. July 6, 2014 is only hours away. I must keep myself busy, remembering my Dad, Walter W. Perkins, and the goodness inside of him. Yes, he had moments of temperamental ups and downs, but he was my dad. As a child, I always looked up to him. I held his hand. We sang. He taught me how to harmonize and he always reminded me to “Make this a good day.”

    I ask you how? How do I make each day a good day without my dad?

    When do we stop grieving over those we’ve loved and lost? When does the heartache end?

    After my dad died, I felt like an orphan. I have learned to move on and to recognize that each day is a gift. I plan to have a serious heart-to-heart discussion with my dad in the morning while drinking my morning coffee. I will lift my head high, looking into the Heavens and speak softly to my Dad. Yes, I will probably cry, but now, the tears are good, cleansing tears because I have learned to move forward. To make the most of every day. July 6, 2014 is another day without my dad, but I am so thankful that I was there for him daily while he battled cancer. Yes, I miss you, Dad. I was blessed to share one more day.

    Thank you, God for giving us one more day!