It’s been four months and yet, I’m still jolted by the
reality that my father is gone. When I’m moved to call him, I suddenly remember. When one of the kids says something I want to
share with him, I remember. When I go to
sleep and recall those last days in the hospital, I remember. It’s those shocks of reality that prolong
this deep sense of loss and sadness. Ugggh! I’m so ready to break free from these bouts
of heartache!
To make myself feel better I indulge in a walk down memory
lane – recalling all those delicious moments in time that combined, made up “Life
with Dad.” My mind clicks on an image; I register it and then move to the
next. I’m working from an infinite wheel
of beautiful memories. This cerebral
tour comforts me.
I’m four years old, pretending to have fallen asleep on the
couch so he would carry me to bed. Click. I’m ten,
a rough-and-tumble tomboy, building forts and catching frogs with my brothers and
Dad. Click. Click.
Next, family vacations: Hiking in
Alaska, touring Italy, praying at the Waling Wall, battling red ants in the
Amazon, visiting national parks, and exploring countless museums. Every trip, every adventure, we’re gloriously
together. Click, click, click...
As I grow older, the bond got stronger. I panicked after my
first class in college. Dad talked me off that ledge. I got a job and called
home to share the news. “That’s great stuff, kiddo!” During our dance at my
wedding reception, Dad gently pulled me closer to share his blessing on my
marriage. “You did good, babe.” He jumped
from his chair with unabashed excitement when we told him we were pregnant and
in a flash, I’m in a hospital room, introducing Dad to our newborn son. Years later, we watched our third and youngest
graduate, with my father right by my side. And then finally, I called Dad from the airport on my way to visit our
daughter in Thailand. He ended the conversation the way he always
did, “Love you sweetheart,” his very last words to me.
Dad went peacefully after a rich and wonderful life. This should help me cope with his death, but
it doesn’t. Despite lots of love around me, I often feel alone. I know I should “buck up and do,” one of
Dad’s favorite go-to sayings, but I can’t.
I’ve been through this before. We lost Mom twenty years ago after her horrific
five-year battle with cancer. She was
far too young, and her end, grueling and cruel. Because she suffered so, I greeted her death
with a sense of relief, grateful that all that pain was behind her. After time, though, the reality hit harshly
that I lost Mom and I fell into raw despair. I mourned and grieved, consumed by
the reality that I was to be forever motherless.
Dotty, my mother-in-law embraced me as her only daughter and
I cherished the intimate connection we shared, particularly after losing Mom. So
when Dot got sick, I was her go-to advocate.
I met with her doctors, communicated the things she was too fearful to
hear from them directly, fought for her care throughout her illness, and never
left her side, right up to the bitter end.
After her funeral, I experienced a profound sense of loss, even greater than
what I felt when my own mother passed. Her death reopened unhealed wounds and subsequently,
it took me a long time to come to terms with losing two cherished women.
Now as I squint into the glare of Loss and contemplate being
“here” again, I know through experience that I will find my way out of this
abyss. It doesn’t lessen the pain, but it will help me manage the panic I feel as
I navigate this prolonged bereavement process. Yes, I will wallow a bit longer,
but when I’m ready, I will find the path that leads to Healing, Acceptance, and
Life.
For me, action is a powerful trigger to ignite recovery. In the past, after clawing my way through
Loss, I’ve been rewarded with a renewed strength that’s helped me make
significant life decisions and changes. From pain to growth, awful to
wonderful, I could heal and honor those I’ve loved and lost.
After Mom’s death, my husband and I moved from New England to
California. We were ready for change and our cross-country relocation was
transformative for our family. Mom’s death, or probably her valiant fight to
avoid it, gave me the courage to break away from the security of home and make
a defining life change with my husband. Nineteen years after the move, I inhale
the gloriousness of all that’s around me—and with every breath, I thank my mom.
When Dotty was dying, I made the decision to undergo genetic
testing. I knew I was at risk because
Mom had ovarian cancer, but it was Dotty’s battle that gave me the personal
resolve to embrace truth over uncertainty.
It also helped me find my way when I learned that I was a BRCA 1 carrier.
Having been a bystander to two gruesome battles with the C-Beast, it was easy
for me to decide to tackle my risk proactively. So, as Dotty fought for life, I
underwent aggressive surgery to prolong mine.
A day doesn’t go by that I’m not grateful that her bravery inspired me to
do all that I can to live as long as I can. When I am basking in the glow of life in my
sixties, seventies, and God-willing, eighties, I will always, always carry
Dot’s determination with me.
As I absorb Dad’s death I can’t dismiss the lessons learned
from my previous interludes with Loss. I
know that when I am ready, I will use his memory and life as stimuli to make my
next bold move. I’m still too raw to plot my journey just yet,
but I’m starting to noodle and ponder and, lo and behold, the exercise, which
is barely beginning, connects me to my father, and that feels so right.
I imagine him smiling as I deliberate. I close my eyes and can actually hear Dad cheer
me on. He’s not telling me what to do
because that was never his style. He’s
just whispering encouragement. “That’s my girl,” he says. “That’s the
stuff.” Tenderly and with my father’s
guidance, I think I’m on my way.
