It’s been a little over a year since my dad died. The details surrounding his estate have been wrapped up, but most of his possessions still fill closets and shelves at my mom’s house. She suffers from dementia, and doesn’t handle changes in her surroundings well. It’s harder in some ways to see so many reminders of him when I visit her, but her needs are much more important than my own now, and selfishly, keeping her happy makes my life much easier.
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
When I think of the day he died, it’s like flipping through a photo album—images flash through my head. I remember the early morning phone call, startling me out of sleep, the quiet but intense drive to their house, phone calls I made. The one thing I don’t remember about that day is writing the piece that follows. I know I must have done it in the afternoon, because I published it later that evening to a couple of small blogs.
It’s weird how when you’re under emotional stress some things seem hyper-real, and others just a blur. The actual grief experience has been much like that—sometimes intensely painful, but other times it recedes into the background so far that I don’t even think about him for long stretches of time. My hope is for the grief to fade while the memories remain clear.
This is what I wrote on that day:
My dad was a dynamo—still mentally sharper at age 94 than most people half his age. He read several newspapers every day, and loved to argue politics. A Goldwater Republican, we had many spirited debates, and he enjoyed the battles. Until two years ago he was golfing every day, and only gave up driving his car last year. Until very recently he enjoyed robust good health, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I harbored the delusion that he’d go on indefinitely.
Last week he was diagnosed with cancer and given three to six months to live. He came home from the hospital on Wednesday, and spent the weekend at home watching golf with all his family around--not because we were waiting for him to die--he would have hated that--but because we had already planned to be at his house this weekend. Yesterday he signed the papers for hospice himself, and we discussed some things he wanted taken care of this week.
Before he went to sleep last night, he and my mom shared a snack of creampuffs with chocolate sauce, and reminisced about old times. This morning he woke up in pain, and by the time the caregiver got back into the room with a pill and a glass of water, he was gone. No weepy goodbyes with relatives descending from across the country, he went quickly and without a fuss, on his own timetable. We were all shocked to get the call--even his doctor called and said he didn't expect the end to come this quickly--but not surprised. He lived life on his own terms, and died the same way.
My dad was always a force of nature. The son of a teenage mother whose father skipped town as soon as he found out about his wife’s pregnancy, my dad considered the bonds of family sacrosanct.
He was generous to a fault, and couldn’t abide miserliness. Although he had success in business, and met many wealthy people in his lifetime, he was never impressed with money or status—one of his best friends lived in a flophouse and spent his days at the public library.
He could always be counted on to offer advice, even if none was solicited or welcomed. And the most frustrating thing is, he was usually right. He loved animals, and spoke to them as though they could understand his every word. I hope his friends were there to greet him today as he crossed the Rainbow Bridge.