One Year Later...
Note: This post is all about my Father's death last year. This may be a trigger for those who are not comfortable with expressions of grief.
My Dad's death was the first death in my nuclear family. My grandparents have died, great aunts and uncles have died, but this was the first time that my immediate family changed significantly through death. Our family unit changed. Dad is no longer on the end of the telephone line. He's no longer there to talk me down when I am too caught up in my emotional brain to be very rational. He is not there to give me advice about what to do about my broken dishwasher. He was the "Adultiest" adult that I had in my life, and he has been gone for an entire year now.
Dad had some sort of event - we suspect stroke, but the hospital and his doctor never did any sort of tests - that led him to decline. He had been showing small signs of decline before the event on November 30th, but that was really the beginning of the end - that event. He, unfortunately, did not lose much speech so probably told the ER personnel that he had fallen rather than telling them all of the things that he was not aware of. They gave him a chest x-ray and then sent him home where he was unable to do any sort of self-care. In the period of six weeks, he declined into requiring total care and then dying. In one week, my mother was frazzled and overwhelmed. My brother and sister were helping as much as they could. It was not a good six weeks. I was 1400+ miles away, sheltered here in Kansas, and trying to figure out how to navigate a world that did not include vaccination quite yet and the need to earn a salary to be able to maintain my role in our family.
Initially, the hospice intake nurse did not have a reason to accept Dad into their program, but when Mom told them that a week previous to the incident, he was able to drive himself to restaurants and initiate conversations, the discussion changed. Being able to shift care from his medical doctor (who stated that the only way Dad would get care from him was if he came into the office in two weeks) to palliative and hospice care was a gift. My Mom, still frazzled from being the primary caregiver, had medical support for the first time in the journey.
The folks at Seasons Hospice were the best. They talked to my Mom about what was going on and what to expect as Dad declined and moved into the active dying process. Dad got one music therapy session from their music therapist. His comment to me? "She walked right in, popped out a stool, and pulled out a guitar, Mary Jane! She just started singing right off!" My sister was heard, yelling in the background, "Duh, Dad. That's what Mary Jane does ALL THE TIME!" It was a moment of levity in a miasma of grief. My other family members spent lots of time with Dad and catered to his whims when he was craving a milkshake. They had to spend lots of time telling him that he was not able to get up and do the things that he wanted to do - like supervising the people finishing up his home improvement projects (which is what he was doing when he had his event - heading out to "supervise" the plumbers who were fixing his shower in the new suite). They talked him through his hallucinations - he was the President of these United States and spent time waving to his constituents. All of those things, they shared with him and with each other. I did not share any of that. It was both a regret and a blessing to be so far away during that time.
My father died early in the morning of my Mom's birthday. His last words were directed towards his twin sister who arrived 12 hours late after missing her connecting flight. She greeted him with an apology and said, "John, I don't know why I missed my flight. I'm so sorry that I'm late. I just don't know why!" He looked at her, smiled, and said, "Because you're Patty." He grinned and smirked at her, sighed, and slipped into a coma. After that, he slipped away - Mom thinks it was around 1:30 am - she woke up about then and thought that something had changed.
My aunt, my father's twin sister, is still locked in the throes of grief. She has experienced the loss of her daughter as well this year, and her "Adultiest" adult was my Dad, so she feels very much alone in how she is grieving. We are all grieving as well, in our own ways, and our ways are very different than her practices - I think she feels alone in how she is processing the loss of her sibling and her daughter.
When I get into the grief cycle, I try to adopt my ideas of mindfulness and my responses to some of my anxiety situations. This practice has been the most helpful to me over the past 13 months. I cry. I allow myself to feel what comes up. There are times when I have to acknowledge the feelings without acting on them in the moment, but I do actively allow myself to feel my feelings when I can. Since my primary grief expression is crying, I do lots of that action. My commutes to and from work often include some grief crying. It's those times, when my brain doesn't have to do much other than steer the car and think about things, when grief comes up. I miss my Dad. I miss being able to hear his voice giving me my options in a rational manner when I am overly emotional.
I mourn.
I am going to add to my personal playlist today. There is a song by Amy Grant that has always resonated with me called, My Father's Eyes. It is a song about our mortal fathers and our spiritual Father. I am not sure that I can listen to the whole thing today, but it is a song that needs to be on my playlist. It has always been a song that makes me think about my Dad, so it goes on my list.
So, one year since my Dad died, I am still grieving his leaving, but I am also celebrating his life, his shared life with my Mom, and my Mom's continued presence with us all!
I know that he loved us all so much. I know that he died in the way that he wanted - before my Mom, without any sort of dementia, and at home, surrounded by as much of his family as possible. He left us in the early morning without any fanfare and without witnesses. He decided to get off the train when he was ready, and he left to prepare a place for us. We will meet again someday.
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