Tag: dying

The hard part

When all the food is eaten and the cards are opened and the obituary is published and the belongings are divided and the shock has worn off and the visitors have come and gone, you’re left with the same problem that all of these distractions can’t touch: The person you loved is gone. Maybe not in spirit, but in body, and you miss them harder without the noise and bustle of everyone else’s grief around you.

I keep thinking I see him out of the corner of my eye. I hear his laugh in someone else’s voice. I have the fleeting thought, “Dad would love this, I should tell him…” before I remember I can’t share it with him.

I’m all too familiar with depression, but this time the source isn’t a chemical ghost haunting my brain. I can’t go to bed with the knowledge that tomorrow will be better, that the glitch in my system will reverse itself with rest.

Instead, I hope for a good day rather than a bad one. I remind myself that it will take time — it’s only been two weeks, after all.

I shower and dress, brush my teeth, and make coffee. I watch comedies and try not to think about how much he’d laugh at them. I browse Facebook and startle when I see his photo pop up in my notifications. I plan an upcoming work trip and tend to sick kids and make shopping lists.

Getting through a loved one’s death is hard, for sure, but living after death is harder. Taking what I’ve learned and using it, rather than wallowing. Trying to move forward, even though I’m not quite ready to stop looking back.

Now comes the hard part.

Rest in peace, Dad

Dad and me

My father passed away on Monday morning. Mom and I were with him when he took his last breath. We sang Three Little Birds, a song he taught me, the only song that came to mind out of a hundred possible songs. It was so appropriate, though, that I can’t help but think his spirit was guiding us, even at the moment of his death.

Rise up this morning
Smile with the rising sun
Three little birds
Sitting by my doorstep
Singing a sweet song, a melody pure and true
Singing: “This is my message to you.”
“Don’t worry ’bout a thing,
’cause every little thing
gonna be all right.”

I’d never witnessed a death until yesterday. It reminded me of birth; you offer what support you can, but ultimately the struggle falls on the shoulders of the person going through it. I’m grateful he didn’t struggle for long, and that he knew he was loved until the end.

Dad's tea, 2003

It’s not his death that’s left an impression, but his dying. Death is a moment; dying is a process. Each day, we’re one moment closer to that last breath. The last six weeks have been incredibly difficult, but also transformative. They’ve forced me to look at my life and reevaluate and reinforce my priorities from the perspective of someone who has only a few days, a few weeks, a few years.

If you knew just how precious your time was, would you spend it differently?

I don’t think I could truly appreciate that question until I was faced with losing someone.

A meeting with the mouse

For the first time, I understand clearly what I believe, something I’d been unable to articulate until now. I hesitate to call it faith; I’m more comfortable with spirituality. Whatever you call it, Dad’s dying gave me a better sense of myself and my beliefs, and that’s a gift.

Popsicle time

I look for these silver linings because he wouldn’t want us to mope, but the simple fact is, I miss him. I know I’m not the only one, given the number of visitors, calls, and messages left for us over the last day.

It only reinforces my belief that the spirit lives on long after the body is gone, in the memories of the ones who loved us, and in the number of lives we touch during our time here.

Photo by Robin MacNeil
Photo by Robin MacNeil

And when I’m in doubt, I’ll always have those three little birds to remind me.

Don’t worry ’bout a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right.

A lesson in loss

It’s been a rough month.

A few weeks ago, my dad went to the doctor to treat a mild cough. An X-ray revealed a mass in his lung, and after multiple follow-ups, what we thought was a lingering virus is actually advanced lung cancer. We’ve gone from a pesky cough to hospice in a matter of weeks.

He’s a lifelong on-and-off smoker, but in that illogical way people have when faced with dire events, I never thought this would happen. The uncertainty of not knowing how long he’ll be with us has made for many ups and downs.

My relationship with my father (like most relationships) is complex, but I have always been able to count on his love and support. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to imagine what life will look like without him.

Dad has always encouraged my creative efforts — from singing, to writing terrible poetry, to karate lessons, to drawing and photography. He gave me my first film camera — his old Pentax ME — and his Time-Life photography books.

Dad is the one who knew I would be a web developer, long before “web developer” was a common profession. What I saw as a frivolous hobby of playing with code on the fledgling web, he saw as a potential career.

He introduced my brother and me to video games like Myst and Prince of Persia and Sim City, and I am strangely proud to say I’ve raided Molten Core alongside him.

My taste in music is questionable, but I like to think the few rock-solid influences — Tom Petty, Eric Clapton, Neil Young, to name a few — can be attributed to his good taste. Some of my favorite childhood memories involve singing folk songs with my family around the kitchen table while Dad played guitar.

Most poignant is how he and my mom have shown me what 37 years of commitment looks like — loving, respectful, imperfect friendship — something that’s framed all my relationships as an adult for the better.

When I was 11 or 12, I went through this phase where I clung to my father’s arm and called him “Daddy”. I’m not sure what it was about; a last-ditch effort to hang onto my own babyhood, I suppose. My dad was bemused by the extra attention, eventually I grew out of it, and that was that.

That girl is still part of me. She wants me to stomp my foot and selfishly declare that he is not allowed to die, that she is not done with him, that this is not fair.

But I’m 32, not 12, so writing this is as close to a tantrum as I’ll get.

The truth is that people die. All the time. Even my dad.

I suppose the last lesson a parent teaches a child is about loss. How to endure it, survive it, and live without.

I’m not ready to learn this one.