A year ago today, we buried my daddy.
Parkinson's and dementia had left him barely recognizable by phone. In person though, there was no mistaking his laugh, the twinkle of mischief in his eye, or the way he held my hand. He never stopped being my daddy.
This past year has been a blur of goodbyes to him. I thought, and I thought wrong, that I had said goodbye to him before he even left. I thought that since he slipped away slowly over time, that I was coping with his death before it even happened.
That, I've discovered, is an impossible thing to do.
Hospice isn't the place to say goodbye. It's the place to say, "I love you. I will be alright." It's the time to hold on tightly and brace yourself with your loved one so that they know that for as long as they are still breathing, they will never be alone.
Only in death can you really say goodbye. Even though he is gone, I keep having to say it to him. Goodbye.
I've been thinking about the idea of heaven lately. I'm supposed to believe in it, as a Christian, and I suppose I do, but I don't believe in any actual description of it. I kind of just have it in my head that it's a promise that after you die, things won't suck.
This week though, I've tried to convince myself of a more concrete vision of heaven. Somewhere over the rainbow bridge where my daddy and Susan's gram would be waiting for Susan to cross over and give them big hugs. Somewhere in a field where Watson, Kepler, and Chelsea would all bound towards her, greeting her with wagging tails and big sloppy kisses. Somewhere Susan could continue being Susan, just without pain or sickness.
I don't know though. It's just not coming to me.
Visions of heaven don't really help right now anyway. Right now, I just miss them. And that has to be okay for now. To just miss them. Daddy and Susan.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
A year of goodbyes
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I think it was a year ago that I said goodbye to my sister, but I'm not sure. That time all seems like a blur. I don't even remember the date.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure about what comes after, but this story was told to me today and now I know why.
My aunt died over a decade ago six weeks after a diagnosis of cancer. Unbelievably she faced her death with dignity and grace and love--even though she was only 49. She always wore Tea Rose perfume by Laura Ashley.
Last week a family friend died. He was my aunt's childhood friend--they were like brother and sister. The day he died, his wife told their daughter "I've smelled roses all day today." (This is Feb in CT) Her daughter blown away said "I smelled them all day today too!"
They knew it the minute they shared that thought. And I know it too. She was there, with Jack, greeting him.
They sent a note to my mom to tell her. And I'm leaving this note for you.
They are with us still and they will be again.
And you know I didn't grow up in the church.
love you.
I had a dream last month where my mother, gone 10 years now, waved me over to show me what it was like for the dead. We floated around in a bubble like Glinda's, and we were with my nieces and nephews, who are all high school/college age, and they were being every bit of the ages they were--cocky, a little too mean to be truly funny--and instead of feeling the angst and frustration I would feel for them in real life, all I felt was love and tenderness and an overwhelming feeling that this too was part of their journey, it would pass, and it would all be ok.
ReplyDeleteI have tried so hard to hang on to that feeling in real life, where I am all too likely to just give in to the annoyance and frustration.
They wait for us, they love us still, even more than before, if that's possible. I have trouble seeing it too. But it was a wonderful glimpse. Wishing you something that brings you some peace and long before 10 years goes by.
When I was a child, I asked my father, who is an English country doctor and the most staunchly stoic man I will ever know, what happens to people when they die.
ReplyDeleteI remember the intense feeling of relief and gratitude I had when he quietly and patiently explained his experiences with dying patients. He assured me that the life force within every living thing was something that had always amazed him. No one knows where it comes from, no one can capture it and "bottle it" as a cure, and until we die, we will not truly know what happens to it after it has left the body.
He looked me right in the eye and told me that he firmly believes that the life force is inextinguishable-- it is too strong, too "magical" to simply disappear. He said that he believed that it HAS to go somewhere else.
That day was the beginning of the development of a new part of my personal faith. Now that I have seen people and pets die and felt that terrible loss, I am even more sure that the concept of a heaven has to be truth on some level. There must be another sphere. We are, all of us, simply on a journey, and ever evolving, be it in this world or the next.
I, too, love the "Rainbow Bridge". The pictures in my mind give me such comfort.
I wish nothing less for you, Marty. You are such a good friend.
xoxo CGF
My dad dying did very hard things to my faith and my concept of heaven. I don't have any good words for you - only that I hear you, I hope that's enough for today.
ReplyDeleteIt's 22 years since my mom died. I still miss her every day. I will never say goodbye to her.
ReplyDelete:(
Hugs.