Warning: this is a ridiculously long post. There is nothing that can be edited out and quite honestly, this doesn't even begin to tell the story in my heart.
My dad was truly a hell of a guy. I will forever be saddened that my husband never had the pleasure of meeting him - they would have absolutely loved each other. Frank didn't have the best background - we won't get into that. People change, and love changes people. And, ah, the love between him and my mother was something out of a movie, only better. He literally turned his life around for her and accepted, actually LOVED, her two daughters. He came into my life when I was 8 years old and I was not thrilled to have him there. Unbothered, he coached my soccer teams, umpired my softball games, attended every holiday concert, cheered on the sidelines of every field hockey and lacrosse game, and interrogated every boyfriend. He filled the Father role in a way my uninterested biological male parent never could. I learned later that upon meeting me, over a year into their courtship, he simply told my mother, "That girl needs a lot of love." And so he loved.
Frank made friends with everyone. Delivery men, friends' parents, other kids, anyone he came across was made to feel important. If you said you liked hot air balloons, Frank read every book about hot air balloons he could find so he could talk to you about it. That's another thing - Frank read EVERYTHING. Preferred history, but would read the back of a cereal box if that's all he had. Crazy because he also remembered everything he read. He was the smartest man I ever knew.
And oh man, did he love my mom. Truly, madly, deeply, passionately, unconditionally, with every fiber of his being did he love my mother. They made Noah and Allie look mildly interested in each other. They set the most amazing example of what marriage should be and that is the reason I ended each unfulfilling relationship. My mom would always tell me, I hope you find your Frank. She cried tears of joy the day I told her I did find my Frank and I was going to marry him one day.
In the summer of 2010, Frank began experiencing back pain. At age 65, this was pretty normal! Especially considering he took care of a 5,000 square foot house and kept the in-ground pool and surrounding area meticulously perfect. His family doctor tried painkillers, shots, all the routine stuff. Nothing helped. Desperate, my mother begged the doctor, Please do something, he's dying and I know it.
She was right. When a wonderful surgeon at Jefferson University Hospital did exploratory diagnostic surgery on January 12, 2011, she found a cancer that had metastasized throughout his entire gastrointestinal tract and progressed into his blood. After hours of removing as much disease as she could, she took us into a small room to give it to us straight: it was bad, Stage 4 Pancreatic, radiation was not an option and chemotherapy would maybe buy him some time, but she predicted 6 months at the most.
Talk about devastating. Unless you've heard a diagnosis like that about someone you love, you can't understand.
The next three months are a blur. Visits to Jeff. Medications. Home nurse. All-day chemo treatments. And then the big one: calling hospice. He had two or three chemo treatments, one of which landed him back in the hospital for a week. He deteriorated rapidly before our eyes. This jolly, vibrant man wasted away. The living room became a hospital. I spent those days spending time with him, watching the Phillies, talking, drinking tea, pretending this wasn't happening. I didn't accept it in my heart. One Sunday, my sister and I sat down to tell him: It will be ok, we will take care of mom. We were 27 and 32 at the time. Heartbroken and defeated he asked us, But who will take care of you?
On Saturday, April 9, 2011, Frank moved out of his hospital bed to sit on the couch and watch a ball game with me. He slept through most of it, missing catcher Carlos Ruiz's grand slam. It was the last time he would leave that bed. Sunday, his pain worsened. I drove to the only pharmacy that had the morphine he needed and cried to the pharmacist - after raging at her for asking if I really needed that medicine right away. We asked and Nancy, the angel hospice nurse, told us the truth: it would be a few days. Monday morning, I went on a job interview I have no recollection of...then straight to my parents' house. In a complete fog, we went to the funeral home and made arrangements knowing we'd need them soon. Friends and family visited and Frank mostly slept. I'll spare you the truly ugly, undignified details. A pump was installed to his port that gave continuous IV painkillers as he was unable to swallow. I layed on an air mattress in the living room, watching him breathe.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011 around 8:30 am, I was lying on the couch watching the morning news next to my dad's hospital bed. My mom came over and asked me to please check because she was pretty sure he was gone. So I did...and he was. I called the funeral home as I'd been instructed..."Hi you told me to call...my dad died. What do I do now." The worst phone call to ever make! We sat around his bed talking to him until it was time to say goodbye.
In those three months, my dad accepted his fate. He knew this one had him beat. He discussed his wishes with my mom. I'm not sure what if anything transpired between him and my sister. The night I cried on his shoulder, silently mourning, he said "Buck up kiddo. You're going to be great." He loved me when I was unlovable and gave me the greatest gift.
"Death is easy...it's this dying shit that sucks."
RIP Frank M. Sellers, 2.1.45 - 4.12.11
you're stardust now
