LESSONS IN GRIEF
While my Dad was alive and in decline, I grieved for the man he used to be. He mostly accepted his limitations, while I was often irritated by them.
Now I wish I’d acknowledged how plucky he was in his old age, even as his hearing diminished, his eyesight faded, his memory lapsed, and his legs wobbled. During this last year, I was annoyed that all he wanted to do was sift through his papers and possessions, throwing out those he couldn’t give away. I was horrified when I discovered he’d been tossing family photos into the trash.
But while my Dad lay dying, all that irritation evaporated. For eleven days, I listened to him breathe with his hallmark strength and stubbornness: He lived for fifteen days without food and eleven without fluid. I sat beside him as he snored, in awe of his determination and life force.
During that time, I was overcome by waves of love, compassion, frustration, boredom and grief. Of these, it’s the grief that lingers, and the realization that I don’t grieve for my father; I grieve for me.
I grieve for the father I thought for most of my life was the smartest man in the world.
LEARNING TO RIDE
He’s the man who taught me to ride a bicycle the way he parented: No training wheels. Just a supporting hand on the back of the seat as I peddled down the driveway between the garage and the street.
It must have been the summer I was five. We went outside after supper and practiced. He ran behind me, with a supporting hand on the back of the seat until one evening, I found myself at the one end of the driveway and he was at the other, grinning at me.
WHAT DAD TAUGHT ME
Caring for an elderly parent is not quite as straightforward as riding a bike. I did my best, but it’s regret that fuels my grief.
I grieve for all the ways I could have been kinder, more accepting of Dad as an elderly man. I’m glad for the times I summoned humor in the face of his confusion and decline; I wish I’d made him laugh more.
I’m at the end of the driveway again. Dad’s again sent me off on my own, this time with more compassion, a desire to be kinder and more loving, and the need to love others – and myself – for just the way we are at this moment in our lives.
Beautifully said.
what a great story that was Deb sometimes we realize things just a tad late
Roger that.
This blog and Mourning Fog (and your dad’s obit) have brought me great comfort. Thank you for sharing your emotions– so similar to my own as Abe is
slowly leaving me . . . hearing loss, dementia, difficulty communicating. Each passing day is filled with, as you said, waves of love, compassion, frustration, boredom, grief–and irritation, sorrow, and fear. We’ve known each other since high school and we’ve been best friends through all the ups and downs of a 64-year marriage. I miss my best friend already. I’m doing my best to travel this road with him in as loving a way as I can, for as long as I can. Thank you for writing about this loss.
Faith, I’m so sorry you are losing Abe in increments and so glad that my words give comfort. Thank you for stepping outside of your fog to let me know.
I’m going to send you some thoughts on “anticipatory grief” in a private email. Love to you both.
Another incredibly moving piece Deb. You were a wonderful daughter.
Thanks, Les. You are a model of kindness and compassion – with Bernie, with your brother and with your parents. Glad you got to know Dad in the relative youth of his 80’s.
I understand this Post very well. After providing care, along with my wife, of my Mom for 25 years,many of those blind, I was gnawed by one thing. I kept thinking, I could have/should have done better. I finally came to a difficult realization. I asked myself if I had done a “Pretty Good” job. I could truthfully answer yes. I asked my Mom in prayer to forgive me for my failings. I was convinced, she did let me know, that she was very grateful for the sacrifice we did make for her.
Also, I was keenly sensitive about your mentioning of how long Dad hung in there without food/water. I was stunned when Hospice informed us, (when nothing else could be done) that this is the process of allowing someone to go home. I prayed they knew what they were doing and they assured me she would not suffer. These are tough things to go through as you just have. Go for a walk…ask yourself, if you did a “Pretty Good” job ? I’m sure you did. Any shortcomings, as I had mine, are part of being “Human”. If you can answer yourself “Yes”, which I’m sure you can…that will greatly aid the healing process.
Thanks for these kind words.
I posted and now it does mot come up
Thank you it the main message…
I woke at 4 and read your post…it went right to my heart and it helped me be ok with right where I am now.
I wrote you a long post and it disappeared..
I guess it was suppose to be …
But I loved your ending of riding the bike now on your own…down the driveway
….and the lesson that was perfect…with more compassion,love and a kinder way of being…to others and to yourself…perfect lesson
thank you always for your beauty of seeing and your way to write and share it with us.
Hugs filled with light and love,
Aylanah
Dear Deborah,
I was so sorry to hear that your dad had died, he obviously was a very inspirational and much loved man, husband and father. You wrote so beautifully about him and about how you have been affected by his death.
You said in one post that, with your parents dead, you have lost your buffer between yourself and death: I felt that very keenly after my dad died. Suddenly, after 56 years, I was no longer a daughter. Not only that, but, along with my brother and sister, I was the oldest generation in our family. It felt strange then and it still feels strange. Death feels that much closer than it did before.
But I remind myself that, whilst nothing is certain in this world, both my parents lived to a good old age (my dad was 93 and my mum just 3 weeks shy of her 90th birthday). If I am lucky enough to follow in their shoes then, at age 61, I still have a third of my life ahead of me and I owe it to them and to myself to make the most of those years.
My thoughts and best wishes are with you and your family.
Judith
I’ve been worried that optimistically, I had “only a third” of my life left. Thank you for showing me the glass is metaphorically half full rather than half empty! And yes, we’re the older generation. But I’d argue that you’re still a daughter; your parents live on in you. All best.