The Old Grey Mule

A true story about my dad.

 

The news from the doctor was grim--dad had terminal cancer. He didn't say what kind and I guess I was too stunned to ask. Something to do with his bowels, I think. 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

[Marie]

Oh, once again tears fall. What amazing inner strength you had as a little five year old child, Sam! Boggles my mind as I think about it. Nobody ever has to be told they are dying, we don't say anything, but we instinctively know it. I love this story and your Dad's good humour. I love how he tried to take your sadness away by telling you he wouldn't die, just be an old grey mule instead, bless him. I simply adore the ending to your very poignant write, Sam:
"Dad lived to see his 91st 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". Nobody writes as masterly as you do, in the simplest terms you convey what you want to say, so your reader understands the meaning behind your words. The journey through life is never an easy one, Sam and yet, we all have a hidden well of strength within us to get to the end of our road in life. Remarkable write sublimely inked. Thank you for sharing, Sam...

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. It's all true. Dad sometimes said things that were silly, but that wasn't one of them. He was the family historian and story-teller--things that I now try to maintain.

[Marie]

Bless you both! You are doing an amazing job, Sam...

[SweetNutmeg]

You did it again, making me cry. I wonder, will we ever see them again? I have no ideas or opinions. I guess I'll find out the way everyone else does. I'm in no hurry, though. I'm ok with not knowing. For now.

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. I think you have it right.

[Betty Hermelee]

Kids are amazing, their innocence, curiosity, vulnerability….. a very heartfelt story, with some very tender words and an especially good relationship between father and son, enjoyed it very much Sam
Warmly
B😊👍

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. I'm so glad you liked it.

[Betty Hermelee]

You are very welcome Sam...
Warmly, B

[Lorry]

I came across this one when you featured it Samuel, but it resonates with me for very similar reasons.
I was the fourth of five kids and when news came to us that my dad had a heart attack it was left to me with the warning not to just blurt it out to my "very highly emotional" ie drama queen of a sister. So what did I do, I told her to brace herself, warned her against making it a drama about her, then blurted it out and left, knowing she would make it all about her, which she did, so I'm told.
But when it came timeseventeen years later to tell my dad he was dying, no one volunteered so I done it again and he thanked me for it too.
Then I bit my tongue for years because my mum wasn't convinced he knew, but he did.
What he did was choose to ignore showing he knew for the rest of the families sake and I hope I can go the same way one day.
And yes, forevermore I shall shout "Hi Dad" to any old grey mules I pass, knowing the secret that few of us know, that dads never die, they just become old grey mules!
😃

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. Dad would be so very happy knowing the fields are just full of other dads, disguised as mules. May they graze on tender spring grass forever.

[FlatDaddy]

What a poignant, touching peek into your past, Sam. If only we could choose the way we meet that day and could share it with the ones we know would live happier lives because of it. I've decided I will fly high above all my kin as an African grey parrot, the most intelligent of all the birds gifted with speech.. If I can no longer write, at least I will be able to keep talking. And if they don't like it, well, I will be able to bestow upon them other gifts that will remind them of me. Oh, yes.

I apologize if this offends any of your readers, Sammy; I just can't help who I am. But I know that YOU, Sam, are laughing, and that was my intent.

FD

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. When you're flying about, be sure to not go near Monty Python's parrot shop. (You may become an ex-parrot)

[FlatDaddy]

I've always wanted to be an ex-pat, but methinks there are better ways. thanks for the tip.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Oh Sam! This one hurt. Especially your closing verse. Wow, you brought it all into perspective. Death is so hard to perceive as a child, and your father was a very wise man to translate it in the kindest most loving way. I will print this out and show it to my family and friends. No doubt, they will be touched by the depth of your father's love for his son! Thank you most kindly for sharing such a tender, moving piece. What a comfort it must be to you now.

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. I'm touched that you would share it with others.

[MCS]

Brilliant piece of writing, my talented friend. I agree with you that one has a right to know that the end is at hand. The grey mule and tender grass put a lump in my throat.

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you so much.

[SweetNutmeg]

Even in such a short story, you managed to move me to tears. I truly wish we all could keep our loved ones forever. Losing a parent is like tearing away a sheltering hand you'd always taken for granted.

[Samuel Dickens]

Thank you. Perhaps we'll see them again. I hope so.

[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.

[Dave Brown]

Must have been a very comforting sight
but
this one hits a bit too close to home
but
MC2U Sam

[Samuel Dickens]

Thanks, Dave. It's never easy.