The Old Grey Mule

A true story about my dad.

 

The news from the doctor was grim--dad had terminal cancer. The exact type wasn’t known, and they weren’t going to run any more tests on a 90 year-old man than they had to. He had long complained to his doctor about his intestinal problems, but nothing had ever been done. He was old-- right? Everyone dies of something, eventually. He had somewhere between a month and six months to live, so the doctor said.

                “You’re the oldest. Will you tell him?” I asked my sister, Mary.

                “Why, no, Sammy, I’m not telling him!”

                “He has to know.”

                She looked away, frowned and said, “I can’t tell him.”

                “He’s dying, Mary. Don’t you think he deserves to know? What about you, Patsy?” I asked my next older sister.

                “No, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t,” said Patsy, not making eye contact.

                “If it was me lying there, I’d want to know,” I stressed.

                “But he’ll be happier during his last days if we don’t tell him!” whispered Mary.

                I continued to argue. “He might have something to say to someone. There might be some kind of arrangements he’ll want to make. I mean, who knows?”

                No one wanted to tell him, and that wasn’t acceptable to me. I’m always the one who rocks the boat, it seems. Always the one who isn’t willing to let things be--why is that?  Mother always told me I was just a smaller version of my father, but she was wrong. It was her genes in me that made me refuse to roll over and take the easy way out.

                I announced to the others, “I’m telling him. He has a right to know, and if no one else is going to do it, I will!”

                Mary, Patsy and the others mumbled, “Okay,” and looked at the floor.

                I walked down the corridor toward dad’s room with a lump in my throat. I didn’t want to say the words, either.  Did they think it would be easy for me? An old, very pertinent  memory came flooding back.

**

                Crying inconsolably, I didn’t know about this thing called "death". Dad just told me about how everybody dies one day. Even he would die, he said, and it was too much for me to take. My five year-old mind wasn’t ready for such news.

                “But it's okay, Sammy; I’ll go to a wonderful paradise called heaven,” he insisted.

                “But I don’t want you to die, daddy!”

                I continued to cry, and no amount of his explaining helped.

                Dad rubbed my head like he often did and said, “Alright, well, you know, I’ve decided I won’t die after all."

                My sobbing slowed and I blubbered, “You won’t?”

                “No. When I get really old and grey, and it’s time for me to die, I’ll just turn into an old grey mule. I’ll go to a pasture and eat grass all day. People will drive by and say ‘Just look at that old grey mule out there!”

                That didn’t seem so bad. No grave, no coffin--just grazing out there in the warm sun all day. I stopped crying. Everything wasn’t fine, but it was acceptable. My daddy would just become an old grey mule.

**

                I walked quietly into the hospital room. It was hard for me to speak without my voice breaking.

                “Dad.”

                “Oh, hi Sammy.”

                “Do you remember that story you told me when I was little, about you turning into an old grey mule one day?”

                “Yes.”

                “Uh, dad. It’s that time.”

                “Well, okay.”  He replied calmly. Rolling his eyes around, I could tell that it was a hard pill for him to swallow, but then he began to smile.

                Dad lived to see his 91^st birthday, but passed away shortly afterwards. There was a funeral, but I know that wasn’t him in the box. No, I saw him just yesterday, standing in a sunlit field, chewing tender green grass.

               

Author's Note

Written several years ago. Two of those who were there that day--Mary and Bob, have joined Dad in the great beyond.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

This is a beautiful story. I just love how you broke the news to your Dad. It was a softer way of doing it and would have reminded him of the stories he told you when you were a child and confirm to him that you remembered them and have used that wisdom in later life. It takes great bravery having to break that news to a loved one. When my mum was seriously ill, the consultant told me that it was the right time to tell her that my brother had died. Oh my God, was that difficult, I thought the news would kill her, but it didn't. Sometimes we are faced with mountains and we just have to get climbing. Loved this story, brought tears to my eyes while drinking an afternoon cuppa. You write so well Sam. You have a huge talent. I hope you are keeping all your stories in a safe place.

All good wishes from across the waters. have a great day.

Chris

[Samuel Dickens]

Many thanks, Chris. I'm so sorry you had to give that awful news to your mother. It had to be done, though. I lost my younger brother 14 years ago, and I'm almost glad father had gone on and wasn't around to hear of it. Life can be a hard road to travel, this we know.
I can barely write anymore. I've about exhausted my supply of real-life events to turn into stories, and new ideas come hard. Despite all that, the urge/need is still there to try and say something worthwhile.

[Chris Shaw]

Dear Sam, never give up. A writer is always a writer to their dying day. Life sure has its hurdles. Sending you warm wishes across the miles.

[Wicahpi]

That was a good way of soothing the fears of a five year old child.
It was a good way to break the news, too, I thought with that memory.
Good story and shame on your sisters!! 91, wow! Sad that our loved ones
have to pass on, but one day we will, too. Why not go out to pasture :)
God Bless

[Tate Morgan]

You are the human experience personified.

[March Books]

A wonderful story. It is sad but uplifting, the way you bring it around full circle in the last paragraph.

My only suggestion is that I found the dialogue to be a little bit stiff.

If this is non-fiction, I give you a lot of credit for being able to write about such an emotional topic.

[Shell]

You reviewed my memory of my dad, so of course when I saw yours, I had to read it.

Wow. This one brought tears to my eyes! A wonderful story and a great memory. What a way to honor your father. And who knows, he just might be that grey mule.

[LSS]

Sam, Its never old when its right. Missed seeing you and you slipped off my friends list. The system has been editing my accounts when I've been off the cafe. Am at that same juncture with my Dad, and its been left up to me to take the old bull by the horns, I know too well the hardness of the lump that you had to swallow and the rage at life that it is a one way street with a dead end that we must all face.
lar

[Lee]

Buddy, now you've got my eyes full of stinging tears. Yes, I can relate. My dad lived his final two months with my wife and I. He was ready and wanted to go. Said he never wanted to live to 80 cause things only get worse. He passed with us holding his hand in my bedroom, five hours shy of his 80th.
Very heartwarming and emotional story. You always end with good stuff, Sam. Thank you for sharing this. Now I'm smilin' again, Lee

[spence]

Oh man! I think you've somehow got a direct link to my heart and mind! You couldn't possibly know this, but when i was about five i watched the old King Kong movie on TV and began to cry when he was killed at the end, (I always side with the underdog, the oppressed and the rejected!). My Dad had the thankless task of explaining the inevitability of the life cycle to me that evening. There was no old grey mule in my story, unfortunately, only a lot of fear of death that remained until teenage nihilism took hold of my senses!
My Dad's still alive, but I've never had much of a relationship with him. I'm the eldest (of six), but only ever see my brothers and sisters at funerals, weddings or christenings, (it's all very complicated)... so I related to much of this, especially when the responsibility was automatically assumed to be the elder sister's. Mind you, knowing my family as I know them, I can't see any of them reaching the age of 91!
To the story itself though. Succint and concise seem to be operative words here. I really like how you interlinked the story through the 'flashback' and how that memory kept Sammy strong when he needed to be most. great work again, thought I'd drop by and read another before I'm banished to my notepad again! A wonderful story that denotes acceptances we must all make, spence

[An owl on the moon]

Sam, this is so.. lost for words.. beautiful.. tender.. moving... Just went through a scare with my dad, and so your story gripped me deeply.. The account is so heartfelt and lifting... Thank you for sharing such a personal moment... Truly...

[Stacey Watts]

This was a very beautiful story. I lost my father Christmas night 2008. It was as though he peacefully closed his eyes leaving this earth. This story made me remember something that my dad had always told me. He said, "I can accept dying but will never leave without the fight." This was a brilliant sweet write. I know you will always remember that conversation with your father fondly.