popsadie
Acrobat
Some parents share their favorite football teams or recipes with their children; my father shared his favorite rock band. Through that, he shared many more things: his fears, his religious struggles, and his passions. In addition, through U2, he shared the last hours of his life.
U2 had been a point of contact between my father and me since I converted to U2 fandom in the summer of 1997. Having mistakenly heard a rumour that my favorite band of that time was opening for U2 in Dallas, Texas, I begged my dad to get us tickets for the concert. He agreed, on the grounds that it would be my high school graduation present. So, he searched the classifieds for advertisements and found two nosebleed seats. Of course, by the time that he found the seats, I found out that the rumour was false. The Smashing Pumpkins were not opening for U2. Regardless, I had heard that a U2 concert was a great show, so I told my dad to buy the tickets. We went to the show together and a new U2 fan (me) was born.
Ever since that summer night in May, my father and I had been U2 fans. We went to U2 concerts together and attended each other's "listening parties" for new albums. We listened to each other relate U2 songs to political, spiritual and general life struggles and we poked fun (in good nature of course) at our favorite LV's soundbites and fashion choices. Our shared fandom brought us together and kept the door open for communication, even during times when we didn't get along so well.
Our shared fandom endured to the end. This might be why I decided to use U2's music to say goodbye. He was fighting a losing battle with pneumonia, brought on by a immune system severely weakened by Hepatitis C and the nurses told me that although he couldn't talk anymore, he could still probably hear me. I had already spent half an hour repeating "I love you daddy and Jesus loves you daddy," and was starting to get tired of hearing my own voice. Still, I wanted to let him know how much I loved him and thought that U2 might say it better than I had. So, during the last hours of my father's life, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, I shared the U2 that I had on my mp3 player.
I put one headphone in his left ear and one headphone in my ear and played about 20 U2 songs consecutively from Under a Blood Red Sky, U2 Best of 1980, and All That You Can't Leave Behind. As "Gloria" from Under a Blood Red Sky played, I found myself praying for God's mercy and wondering if the song could be speaking to him. I found myself thinking about how young and hopeful he must have been when he first heard "New Years Day" as a young parent in his late twenties, which was the same age I am now. Still, as moving and heart-breaking as the songs off of Under a Blood Red Sky and the Best of were, it was a deep cut off of All that You Can't Leave Behind that sliced open my rib cage, grabbed my heart and slammed it on the hospital floor. The song was "In a Little While" and I will never forget the moment when I sang with choked back tears, "Slow Down my beating heart...slowly love..slowly love". As the song played, I put one hand on his chest and one hand on my mine. My heart wouldn't listen....it kept on pounding. His chest, however was agonizingly responding to the song. Slowly, slowly...it was slowing down. I watched his heart rate go down two beats in the space of that song.
Sadly, his heart didn't stop slowing down after the song was finished. I played the last u2 song on my mp3 player for him on 12:30 P.M. and he breathed for the last time at 2:55 P.M. When the doctor pronounced him dead, all of the family with exception of myself left the room. I stayed and sang one last U2 song, "MLK". As I sang, "sleep tonight and may your dreams be realized" a tear rolled down my face. With the last note of "so let it rain...rain down on him," I sang goodbye to my daddy of 29 years, 10 months and 17 days.
U2 had been a point of contact between my father and me since I converted to U2 fandom in the summer of 1997. Having mistakenly heard a rumour that my favorite band of that time was opening for U2 in Dallas, Texas, I begged my dad to get us tickets for the concert. He agreed, on the grounds that it would be my high school graduation present. So, he searched the classifieds for advertisements and found two nosebleed seats. Of course, by the time that he found the seats, I found out that the rumour was false. The Smashing Pumpkins were not opening for U2. Regardless, I had heard that a U2 concert was a great show, so I told my dad to buy the tickets. We went to the show together and a new U2 fan (me) was born.
Ever since that summer night in May, my father and I had been U2 fans. We went to U2 concerts together and attended each other's "listening parties" for new albums. We listened to each other relate U2 songs to political, spiritual and general life struggles and we poked fun (in good nature of course) at our favorite LV's soundbites and fashion choices. Our shared fandom brought us together and kept the door open for communication, even during times when we didn't get along so well.
Our shared fandom endured to the end. This might be why I decided to use U2's music to say goodbye. He was fighting a losing battle with pneumonia, brought on by a immune system severely weakened by Hepatitis C and the nurses told me that although he couldn't talk anymore, he could still probably hear me. I had already spent half an hour repeating "I love you daddy and Jesus loves you daddy," and was starting to get tired of hearing my own voice. Still, I wanted to let him know how much I loved him and thought that U2 might say it better than I had. So, during the last hours of my father's life, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, I shared the U2 that I had on my mp3 player.
I put one headphone in his left ear and one headphone in my ear and played about 20 U2 songs consecutively from Under a Blood Red Sky, U2 Best of 1980, and All That You Can't Leave Behind. As "Gloria" from Under a Blood Red Sky played, I found myself praying for God's mercy and wondering if the song could be speaking to him. I found myself thinking about how young and hopeful he must have been when he first heard "New Years Day" as a young parent in his late twenties, which was the same age I am now. Still, as moving and heart-breaking as the songs off of Under a Blood Red Sky and the Best of were, it was a deep cut off of All that You Can't Leave Behind that sliced open my rib cage, grabbed my heart and slammed it on the hospital floor. The song was "In a Little While" and I will never forget the moment when I sang with choked back tears, "Slow Down my beating heart...slowly love..slowly love". As the song played, I put one hand on his chest and one hand on my mine. My heart wouldn't listen....it kept on pounding. His chest, however was agonizingly responding to the song. Slowly, slowly...it was slowing down. I watched his heart rate go down two beats in the space of that song.
Sadly, his heart didn't stop slowing down after the song was finished. I played the last u2 song on my mp3 player for him on 12:30 P.M. and he breathed for the last time at 2:55 P.M. When the doctor pronounced him dead, all of the family with exception of myself left the room. I stayed and sang one last U2 song, "MLK". As I sang, "sleep tonight and may your dreams be realized" a tear rolled down my face. With the last note of "so let it rain...rain down on him," I sang goodbye to my daddy of 29 years, 10 months and 17 days.