I have spent my few weeks at the Folk’s house as Dad was dying and finding photos, keepsakes, papers, and awards in the file drawers and boxes in the garage, as Dad was completing his life in preparation for the day. I was driven to pull albums down from the highest shelves to look at the photos and records. I didn’t understand the compulsion, but went with it. That urge is over since last night. There are many things untouched, but no pull to open them now.
Death is a good thing. Going through this last week with the Folks, I never doubted the gift of death and never resisted it. I felt like a strange human, having felt none of the grief and anger usually talked about, written about. I mostly felt a quiet joy: This is right. This is good. Every part of the process is natural. Watching Dad go through the dying process was remarkable, from his occasional raising the eyebrows to a quick smile. I wasn’t sad, tired yes, but not sad. Even seeing him shrink was OK. Not the reaction I expected from myself. I was in suspended animation. I was very functional, but separated from the outside world, focused here, with my Parents. If Dad was OK and Mom was OK. Then I could be OK. Actually I don’t know if it was the chicken or the egg. Actually everyone was much better than OK, and Amita accepted at each moment what I needed to do.
After hospice arrived, Dad started to be more than “my Dad.” More like his total self, beyond me and Mom. I was perhaps a flicker of a life he knew out of a 100 lifetimes. There were many, many times I didn’t, couldn’t see him as my Father. There was love, but not attachment. There was also no duty. This was absolutely where I wanted to be, was meant to be. Not because I should, rather because it was right. No further explanation was needed.
Lots and lots of people have said that the Folks were lucky to have me here for them. Yes, that is true. Most people don’t get a situation like this; full attendance, good vibe, great care…etc., but those comments, though accurate, were not about me, or at least I couldn’t take them personally. It was a fact, not a credit. I have been at least as fortunate as they to have them as my Parents. I’ve learned and grown as a human being these weeks. I have a dimension and understanding that was simply not previously available before about one of the two great acts of life; dying.
During the last couple days, I had the following conversation with my father in a rare moment of clarity.
Me: “Thank you for everything…”
Dad: “You’re welcome”
Me: “This has gone very quickly…”
Dad: Nodded his head and smiled. Dad sat up when Mom came in for a visit. She tripped next to his bed. He insisted that I get his pants and put them on him. I was confused but not about to question. (Mom’s still on the floor). After I got his pants on, then the belt, he looked at me and said, “I don’t know how much weight I can pick up….” And looked at Mom sitting on the floor where she fell. “Oh Dad” was all I could say. Helping Mom was all he could think about.
I sat and waited
Watching my father die
Gradual, nothing dramatic
I felt love, connection
But not only because
He was my Father
The love was from beyond
The relationship “Father”
I could barely recognize
I felt our souls
Had been offered
The opportunity to share this time
To share the joy
Of recognizing, knowing
That God does in fact exist
We’ve all jokingly said
“There is a God!”
When something turns out well
This was the real thing
There really is a God
Feeling relief, joy, gratitude and peace
As he reviewed his life
And his body shuts down
Flickers of smiles appear and quickly fade
This is about
“That which can’t be said”
Present is gratitude for all
