Remembering

I may have overscheduled myself for the latter half of July to numb myself a little.

But the effect is quickly wearing off, and I think it’s for the better.

Today is the one-year anniversary of losing my father. One year ago Sunday, I flew home with a bouquet of zinnias and a book on dying in my oversized carry on.

Dad was on hospice by then and I couldn’t bear to be apart from him, knowing he had maybe a month to six weeks to live. My husband was so encouraging on me following my heart and returning to be with him. The timing was confounded by the fact that I hadn’t seen my father-in-law since his beloved wife passed away in January 2020 a day after my birthday and before the world shut down; he had planned a trip to see us in July and was staying for a little over a week. I cut my time with him short by 3 days to go be an extra person at home to help care for dad on hospice.

At the very end, my oldest was holding my Mom’s hand (she reached for his hand at some point during his final hour), she was holding Dad’s hand too, and I was on his other side with the rest of my family him holding his other hand, all linked together. It was so peaceful.

I had been with my dad two other times already that summer. Once, in mid-June, before he went on hospice. During that visit, he was sent to the ER during a palliative appointment due to very low blood pressure. It turned out on top of the cancer that had grown back with a vengeance, an infection from a fall and hearing loss (we think from the antibiotics), he had developed a heart condition, too. He knew then, in June, that the life he’d hoped to recapture had sunset. It was so difficult to see him truly defeated in the hospital bed, shrugging in a “what does it matter” when I proclaimed enthusiastically on the white board (because, remember, he couldn’t hear), that he was being discharge and could go home.

Once he was settled at home, I flew home for a week and a half, and then flew back with my entire family for the Fourth of July. At that time, he felt terrible still, and apologized to me that he wasn’t up for spending time with the grandsons. Still without hearing and very uncomfortable, he had not yet fully decided to go on hospice or not.

This week, one year ago, was a frenzied blur. I’ve done a lot of emotional processing over the months since he passed, but there’s something about the anniversary of being in it with him that is welling up some unprocessed grief. He and I pulled an epic all-nighter when he could no longer stand up on his own and before the hospice bed arrived, because, stubborn old man loved stretching out in the cool basement and that’s where he got stuck until we were able to get a hospital bed setup and call for a medical transport.

Once I was between talks this week, I felt a deep and familiar sadness, one that is unlike any other grief I know, cracking my heart open anew. I am very good at keeping myself busy — you see it everyday in the garden. The disease of busyness keeps us distanced from our hearts. I am keenly aware of this, and plan to work this weekend on not being busy but really trying to be present. I know canning season is a wonderful time in that regard … hours of puttering around the kitchen, and forever marked by the tasks I focused on after we said our goodbyes to him.

Grief does change with time, but it doesn’t ever go away. It takes on new forms. It presents itself in different ways. It often catches you off-guard, tipped off by a sight, smell, feeling, or other sensory experience. You are able to smile and laugh more, tell stories joyfully, but then grief bubbles up and swallows you out of nowhere.

I feel so blessed to have spent so much time with my Dad, but especially his final 5 days on earth. If you were my support circle, you know I was a wreck. I wasn’t sleeping well, I was trying to keep track of his breathing, the dosing of comfort meds, and all the things family members do while their loved one is on hospice in the comfort of their own home. It was worth every tear, every lost hour of sleep.

We will be celebrating him tonight with a remote family dinner. I’ll be wearing my red chuck taylors to Orchestra Hall tonight, where we will hear some Beethoven. Getting to the one year marker is a significant step in moving forward while bringing those we love along with us in spirit, cheering us on in their own ethereal way as we keep on living as best we can.

All this to say, call your people. Hug your people. Talk to your people, say the things you want to say. No matter how hard that might be, I promise you will never regret doing it.