Today is the one year anniversary of my Dad's passing.
I wasn't sure how I was going to feel by the one-year mark. I used to wonder if things would be easier by then, or if it would be an extremely difficult day.
While I cry less now that I once did, I'm not confident that it's entirely the healing process. It used to be that I would think about my Dad in some way and I would be reduced to a puddle of tears. It was necessary, cathartic, and also exhausting. Now I simply choose when to allow myself to have those thoughts and get emotional. Sometimes I break down and cry, and sometimes I just put it out of my mind. I know this is a defense mechanism, and likely a form of denial, but it really does help me to live a relatively normal day-to-day life.
Sometimes I just pretend that he's on vacation, or it's just been forever since we spoke on the phone. Somehow it's easier to pretend that it's just a short break we're experiencing. Is it too much to ask for a phone line in Heaven? I could seriously make my peace with the idea of never seeing him again, if I could just hear his voice and speak to him. Or maybe even never speak to him again, if I could just get a letter from him once and a while. Or maybe, if we could meet in my dreams each night, and have a relationship there.
Everyone who has lost someone can attest to the longing for "just one more day". Oh what we all wouldn't give for that one more day; to say and do all the things that we missed and forgot and regretted not sharing. I can tell you I would give up all of my material possessions for that, without another thought. Because when it comes down to it, there is nothing more important than what we do with our limited time on this Earth. You cannot take anything else with you when you go.
Speaking of going back for "just one more day", if you do nothing else this year, you should see the movie "About Time". The message is truly profound, essentially about how we chose to experience our day-to-day lives, and what we would do if we could go back and experience it all again. The movie stuck with me for hours, even days, after I watched it. It was so beautifully, heart-wrenchingly real, despite the aspect of time-travel (in a way I only wish was possible). You will not regret it. Stop what you're doing, see this movie, absorb its message, and put it into practice in your own life.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing? The roles of Hope and Denial when coping with Cancer
I apologize for the lack of posts recently. The last few weeks were difficult as expected (with my Dad's birthday and Father's Day), so I just tried to avoid thinking about it, and certainly didn't want to write about it. It got me thinking about denial, and how we naturally use it as a defense mechanism, even when we aren't aware of it. This is especially try during the process of dealing with cancer.
When my Dad was battling his Pancreatic Cancer, I don't really know if he was in denial or had found acceptance - he never shared this with me. For all I know, he may have come to terms with his own mortality at some point. But in our relationship, there was a lot of denial. Whenever I'd ask how he was feeling or how an appointment went, he told me he was feeling well, getting better, or showing progress. He was always optimistic. The reality was that he was in constant pain, was often getting sicker, and/or was constantly encountering medical setbacks and challenges.
I remember only one time where he allowed himself to be vulnerable with me. He was visiting me for the weekend, and just didn't feel well enough to make it to our dinner reservations. We canceled and decided to order pizza instead, even though he really had no appetite. He always loved going to dinner with us (he was such a foodie) and particularly loved this restaurant we had planned to visit, so cancelling our plans was very disappointing to him; I know he felt like he was letting us down, as if it was possible for him to hate his cancer any more intensely.
He was sitting on our guest bed with me, and he began to cry. He said "I don't want to die" And what did I say? "Don't talk like that. You're not going to die. Don't cry Dad. Everything's going to be OK." Why did I say this? At the time, I'm sure I was thinking that I wanted to make him feel better; that I hated seeing him cry. But looking back now, I see that this was the perfect opportunity for us to have a real honest and open conversation about his illness, and I brushed it aside. Only now, in the clarity of hindsight, do I wish that I had embraced this chance to tell each other how much we meant to each other, and everything we wanted the other person to know. I imagine it would go something like this:
"I don't want to die"
"I don't want you to die either Dad. But I'm so afraid you will. I'm afraid that this horrible cancer is going to take you away from me. I really can't imagine my life without you"
"Why is God doing this to me? Why did he have to give me cancer right when my relationship with my two girls has begun to get so good?"
"I don't know why, and it's not fair. But I'm so grateful for how much our relationship has improved lately. You're such a great Dad. And you do so much to make sure I know how much you care about me and love me. Even when we weren't as close you still always made an effort; like coming to my graduations beaming with pride. And always making trips to visit me. I'm so lucky to have you"
"Of course, I've always loved you and just wanted to be close to you. Everything you've done has made me so proud of you. My baby girl all grown up, married to a wonderful man, living in this beautiful house you renovated, and with a successful business you built on your own. You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do makes me happy. I want you to know that if I'm ever gone, I'll always be watching over you and smiling with pride at everything you accomplish."
"I love you so much Dad. I'm not ready to live without you - we have too much time to make up for"
"I'm not ready to leave you. I'm going to do everything I can to fight this and stay here with you girls. But the truth is this cancer is the ugliest cancer, and the chances are very slim. I'm holding on to hope and will not give up the fight."
"What do you mean? How slim?"
"The doctors say the survival rate is only about 4%, and the treatment time is usually only 8 months or so."
"But you've already been receiving treatment for a year."
"I know, and I'm so excited about that. I'm living on borrowed time right now it seems. But I'm trying to be the 4%:
"If that's true then I don't want to waste any more time. I can't believe I've been living my life as if it's just another day. I want us to never take each other for granted. I promise I'll do a better job of rationing my time. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, Dad.
"I want that, too, sweetheart."
You always think there will be another chance, but the fact is there are no guarantees. And for some reason, we all think it is taboo to tell someone all the emotional, touchy, sappy things we have in our hearts. We believe these things are only to be revealed during those final moments with someone before we say goodbye. And so we wait until we're kissing and hugging at the airport when someone moves away, or we write a love letter after our failed relationship, or we profess our innermost feelings while holding their hand at their bedside. Don't people deserve to hear these things while we still have time to spend together? Why are we so afraid to let them know how we really feel, and how much they really mean to us? How much would you love to hear these beautiful words spoken by someone you love? How liberating would it be to tell someone these special words? Imagine how your time together would change; how much more meaningful your time together would be.
Unfortunately there is a lot of denial in the cancer world, particularly in the Pancreatic Cancer community. It's a very fine line between Denial and Hope. It seems many people experiencing this disease (patients as well as family and caregivers) are encouraged to cling to Hope. Hope for the best response to treatment, Hope that the sickness will go away, Hope that something will happen and they will be the exception to the rule. Then before you know it, the fight it over, the Hope is gone, and you can't help but think that that Hope you were clinging to was actually Denial in Hope's clothing.
This is the part that really aggravates me. Instead of constantly preaching Hope, why can't someone come in with a shot of reality which will ultimately encourage people to consider their own mortality and maybe even embrace their limited time in an effort to make the most of every moment? Even when patients accept this process inwardly, but keep a brave face around their family and caregivers, it only creates pain for those around them who never have the opportunity to share this honest experience with them.
I think a lot of people feel like if they come to terms with the reality of their disease (particularly with Pancreatic Cancer) that they are essentially giving up, but that is simply not true! You can still fight the fight, pray with intense faith, and explore every treatment option. But why hide the pain and carry on with life as if you don't really have cancer? You have cancer. This is the truth. You may not always have cancer, but right now you have cancer, and you should live like you have cancer. Allow yourself to be angry, to be sad, to be scared. Allow yourself to be vulnerable with people you love and share with them your words of fear, hope, and most importantly love - revealing your innermost feelings about a relationship so cherished. This will allow others to also show their fear, grief, support and love. Both of you will be liberated. Your time together will be more meaningful. You will both have fewer regrets.
This far outweighs the alternative, as is evident by my struggle with so many regrets following my Dad's passing. I really believe that this one conversation could have completely changed our last few months together.
When my Dad was battling his Pancreatic Cancer, I don't really know if he was in denial or had found acceptance - he never shared this with me. For all I know, he may have come to terms with his own mortality at some point. But in our relationship, there was a lot of denial. Whenever I'd ask how he was feeling or how an appointment went, he told me he was feeling well, getting better, or showing progress. He was always optimistic. The reality was that he was in constant pain, was often getting sicker, and/or was constantly encountering medical setbacks and challenges.
I remember only one time where he allowed himself to be vulnerable with me. He was visiting me for the weekend, and just didn't feel well enough to make it to our dinner reservations. We canceled and decided to order pizza instead, even though he really had no appetite. He always loved going to dinner with us (he was such a foodie) and particularly loved this restaurant we had planned to visit, so cancelling our plans was very disappointing to him; I know he felt like he was letting us down, as if it was possible for him to hate his cancer any more intensely.
He was sitting on our guest bed with me, and he began to cry. He said "I don't want to die" And what did I say? "Don't talk like that. You're not going to die. Don't cry Dad. Everything's going to be OK." Why did I say this? At the time, I'm sure I was thinking that I wanted to make him feel better; that I hated seeing him cry. But looking back now, I see that this was the perfect opportunity for us to have a real honest and open conversation about his illness, and I brushed it aside. Only now, in the clarity of hindsight, do I wish that I had embraced this chance to tell each other how much we meant to each other, and everything we wanted the other person to know. I imagine it would go something like this:
"I don't want to die"
"I don't want you to die either Dad. But I'm so afraid you will. I'm afraid that this horrible cancer is going to take you away from me. I really can't imagine my life without you"
"Why is God doing this to me? Why did he have to give me cancer right when my relationship with my two girls has begun to get so good?"
"I don't know why, and it's not fair. But I'm so grateful for how much our relationship has improved lately. You're such a great Dad. And you do so much to make sure I know how much you care about me and love me. Even when we weren't as close you still always made an effort; like coming to my graduations beaming with pride. And always making trips to visit me. I'm so lucky to have you"
"Of course, I've always loved you and just wanted to be close to you. Everything you've done has made me so proud of you. My baby girl all grown up, married to a wonderful man, living in this beautiful house you renovated, and with a successful business you built on your own. You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do makes me happy. I want you to know that if I'm ever gone, I'll always be watching over you and smiling with pride at everything you accomplish."
"I love you so much Dad. I'm not ready to live without you - we have too much time to make up for"
"I'm not ready to leave you. I'm going to do everything I can to fight this and stay here with you girls. But the truth is this cancer is the ugliest cancer, and the chances are very slim. I'm holding on to hope and will not give up the fight."
"What do you mean? How slim?"
"The doctors say the survival rate is only about 4%, and the treatment time is usually only 8 months or so."
"But you've already been receiving treatment for a year."
"I know, and I'm so excited about that. I'm living on borrowed time right now it seems. But I'm trying to be the 4%:
"If that's true then I don't want to waste any more time. I can't believe I've been living my life as if it's just another day. I want us to never take each other for granted. I promise I'll do a better job of rationing my time. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, Dad.
"I want that, too, sweetheart."
You always think there will be another chance, but the fact is there are no guarantees. And for some reason, we all think it is taboo to tell someone all the emotional, touchy, sappy things we have in our hearts. We believe these things are only to be revealed during those final moments with someone before we say goodbye. And so we wait until we're kissing and hugging at the airport when someone moves away, or we write a love letter after our failed relationship, or we profess our innermost feelings while holding their hand at their bedside. Don't people deserve to hear these things while we still have time to spend together? Why are we so afraid to let them know how we really feel, and how much they really mean to us? How much would you love to hear these beautiful words spoken by someone you love? How liberating would it be to tell someone these special words? Imagine how your time together would change; how much more meaningful your time together would be.
Unfortunately there is a lot of denial in the cancer world, particularly in the Pancreatic Cancer community. It's a very fine line between Denial and Hope. It seems many people experiencing this disease (patients as well as family and caregivers) are encouraged to cling to Hope. Hope for the best response to treatment, Hope that the sickness will go away, Hope that something will happen and they will be the exception to the rule. Then before you know it, the fight it over, the Hope is gone, and you can't help but think that that Hope you were clinging to was actually Denial in Hope's clothing.
This is the part that really aggravates me. Instead of constantly preaching Hope, why can't someone come in with a shot of reality which will ultimately encourage people to consider their own mortality and maybe even embrace their limited time in an effort to make the most of every moment? Even when patients accept this process inwardly, but keep a brave face around their family and caregivers, it only creates pain for those around them who never have the opportunity to share this honest experience with them.
I think a lot of people feel like if they come to terms with the reality of their disease (particularly with Pancreatic Cancer) that they are essentially giving up, but that is simply not true! You can still fight the fight, pray with intense faith, and explore every treatment option. But why hide the pain and carry on with life as if you don't really have cancer? You have cancer. This is the truth. You may not always have cancer, but right now you have cancer, and you should live like you have cancer. Allow yourself to be angry, to be sad, to be scared. Allow yourself to be vulnerable with people you love and share with them your words of fear, hope, and most importantly love - revealing your innermost feelings about a relationship so cherished. This will allow others to also show their fear, grief, support and love. Both of you will be liberated. Your time together will be more meaningful. You will both have fewer regrets.
This far outweighs the alternative, as is evident by my struggle with so many regrets following my Dad's passing. I really believe that this one conversation could have completely changed our last few months together.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
More Recommended Reading
I finished a few more books that I wanted to share with everyone who may be interested in reading them:
Glimpses of Heaven
http://www.glimpsesofheavenbook.com/
This book was written by a Hospice nurse who shared her observations of 'glimpses of Heaven' when spending time with people during their final moments. Most of these people had experiences seeing angels, or loved ones in the great beyond, or even Jesus himself. They were able to share these visions before they passed, giving their family members comfort and peace in the wake of their death. Unfortunately this book did not offer much comfort or peace to me, because there is no way for me to know if my Dad experienced any of these things, as he could not communicate with us for the last few days of his life. This book does, however, introduce the conversation of Heaven and to look for these 'glimpses', which may be helpful for someone who is personally, or knows someone who is, terminally ill and preparing for the end with Hospice care.
90 Minutes in Heaven
http://www.90minutesinheaven.com/
This book was written by a pastor who was in a head-on collision with a semi-truck and pronounced dead at the scene. His body was so badly mangled that it spelled disaster for his brain and organs, and his lack of heartbeat meant there was no rush to use the jaws of life to free him from his scalped vehicle. Another pastor in the traffic that followed, felt compelled to pray for this man, and after 90 minutes in the great beyond, he began singing a hymn with the praying pastor. This books tells of his experience in Heaven during those 90 minutes, and his life after the accident. Although this book truly gives a sense of the glory of Heaven, it also reaffirms the belief that it is simply so fulfilling that you do not give a second though to the life you left behind. So much so that he often longed to go back, and no longer be a part of this world and this life after his return to Earth. This part was hard for me to read and grasp because it insinuates that my Dad might not even be thinking about the life he left behind, and that makes me sad. But this was still a very good book.
When God Winks
http://www.whengodwinks.com/
This book was all about the power of 'coincidence'. (I use this term loosely because according to this book there is no such thing as coincidence - everything happens for a reason and is all intertwined). This book describes incredible accounts from everyday people who share stories about the power of these coincidences, called Godwinks. This was an uplifting book and an easy read, and encourages you to be more mindful of the events that transpire in life and how they may be messages from God, or Godwinks directed just for you.
Glimpses of Heaven
http://www.glimpsesofheavenbook.com/
This book was written by a Hospice nurse who shared her observations of 'glimpses of Heaven' when spending time with people during their final moments. Most of these people had experiences seeing angels, or loved ones in the great beyond, or even Jesus himself. They were able to share these visions before they passed, giving their family members comfort and peace in the wake of their death. Unfortunately this book did not offer much comfort or peace to me, because there is no way for me to know if my Dad experienced any of these things, as he could not communicate with us for the last few days of his life. This book does, however, introduce the conversation of Heaven and to look for these 'glimpses', which may be helpful for someone who is personally, or knows someone who is, terminally ill and preparing for the end with Hospice care.
90 Minutes in Heaven
http://www.90minutesinheaven.com/
This book was written by a pastor who was in a head-on collision with a semi-truck and pronounced dead at the scene. His body was so badly mangled that it spelled disaster for his brain and organs, and his lack of heartbeat meant there was no rush to use the jaws of life to free him from his scalped vehicle. Another pastor in the traffic that followed, felt compelled to pray for this man, and after 90 minutes in the great beyond, he began singing a hymn with the praying pastor. This books tells of his experience in Heaven during those 90 minutes, and his life after the accident. Although this book truly gives a sense of the glory of Heaven, it also reaffirms the belief that it is simply so fulfilling that you do not give a second though to the life you left behind. So much so that he often longed to go back, and no longer be a part of this world and this life after his return to Earth. This part was hard for me to read and grasp because it insinuates that my Dad might not even be thinking about the life he left behind, and that makes me sad. But this was still a very good book.
When God Winks
http://www.whengodwinks.com/
This book was all about the power of 'coincidence'. (I use this term loosely because according to this book there is no such thing as coincidence - everything happens for a reason and is all intertwined). This book describes incredible accounts from everyday people who share stories about the power of these coincidences, called Godwinks. This was an uplifting book and an easy read, and encourages you to be more mindful of the events that transpire in life and how they may be messages from God, or Godwinks directed just for you.
Getting Over the Hurdle
This month is going to be a tough one. All within the span of 30 days will be several significant dates. First, May 7 marked six months since my Dad's passing. Part of me cannot believe that it's been six months already, but another part of me feels like it's been forever since he was last with me. I really cannot fathom how I will get through the next hundreds of months left in my lifetime, without being able to be with him.
May 21 marks his birthday. He would be 61 this year. This will be the first birthday we celebrate without him. I struggle with this date because I missed his 60th birthday party because I had to work that weekend. Knowing what I know now, I so wish I would have had someone else fill in for me so I could attend his party. This is one of my many regrets that haunt me still, even more so when I think of his impending birthday.
And of course June signifies Father's Day. I would ordinarily spend time picking out the perfect card, full of words of love and optimism. Then I'd select the perfect gift(s), like special seasoning, kitchen gadgets, and recipe books for his time in the kitchen, or sentimental pictures of our family. Even now when I'm browsing a store and I see something I know he would have loved, I contemplate buying it for him for just a second, and remember that he's no longer here to receive the gift.
Even thoughts of my upcoming wedding anniversary in June have a little cloud hanging overhead. It's a time when I would want to watch my wedding video, but now cannot bare the thought of reliving our Father/Daughter dance, or him walking me down the aisle. I also remember his voicemail he left me last year while we were spending an anniversary weekend in Savannah; "Happy Anniversary!" he half sang/half shouted in the message, in a voice so clearly identified in my memory. I saved the message for many months after because it always made me smile to hear the happiness and love in his voice. I prided myself on always having this message saved in my phone to go back and listen to, until a few days before his passing when I went back to hear it and discovered it was gone. A small breakdown ensued, simply because it was the last voicemail I had saved where his voice was happy and healthy in tone. (I had other voicemails saved more recently but all were messages wherein he described his current hospital stay and latest health issues; none as vibrant and joyous as this one message I cherished for so long). I fear a day when I might no longer remember the sound of his voice.
So many things remind me of him. Big things like his favorite sports teams, his favorite restaurants, and physical belongings of his, but also small and strange things... Like the other day I was sitting at a red light watching the crosswalk count down to prepare for the light to turn green. Suddenly I remembered being a little girl, in the car with my sister and my Dad, and we were trying to guess when the light would turn green for us. My sister and I kept guessing "...NOW!" "...NOW!", and then my Dad would say "Now!" and the light would change. We thought he was a genius! We could never get it right, but he always seemed to know when the light was about to change. Little did we know that he was watching the blinking hand of the crosswalk sign, and the light turning yellow in the intersection. This made me smile; something as mundane as a traffic light, now reminding me of my Dad.
For this reason, I decided to buy what I'm calling a Memory Journal. A large, substantial, good-quality journal where I can jot down any memories that come to mind about my Dad. Big things and little things. I want to remember everything. I want to be able to share these one day with my children, nieces and nephews, and/or grandchildren. I want to preserve the memory of my Dad, to be as multi-dimensional, as complete, as whole as possible. I think this will help to give me even more purpose in moving on in the absence of my Dad.
If you're grieving the loss of a loved one, this type of journaling may really help you to feel more connected to their memory, and that you are honoring their legacy, and I encourage you to try it.
May 21 marks his birthday. He would be 61 this year. This will be the first birthday we celebrate without him. I struggle with this date because I missed his 60th birthday party because I had to work that weekend. Knowing what I know now, I so wish I would have had someone else fill in for me so I could attend his party. This is one of my many regrets that haunt me still, even more so when I think of his impending birthday.
And of course June signifies Father's Day. I would ordinarily spend time picking out the perfect card, full of words of love and optimism. Then I'd select the perfect gift(s), like special seasoning, kitchen gadgets, and recipe books for his time in the kitchen, or sentimental pictures of our family. Even now when I'm browsing a store and I see something I know he would have loved, I contemplate buying it for him for just a second, and remember that he's no longer here to receive the gift.
Even thoughts of my upcoming wedding anniversary in June have a little cloud hanging overhead. It's a time when I would want to watch my wedding video, but now cannot bare the thought of reliving our Father/Daughter dance, or him walking me down the aisle. I also remember his voicemail he left me last year while we were spending an anniversary weekend in Savannah; "Happy Anniversary!" he half sang/half shouted in the message, in a voice so clearly identified in my memory. I saved the message for many months after because it always made me smile to hear the happiness and love in his voice. I prided myself on always having this message saved in my phone to go back and listen to, until a few days before his passing when I went back to hear it and discovered it was gone. A small breakdown ensued, simply because it was the last voicemail I had saved where his voice was happy and healthy in tone. (I had other voicemails saved more recently but all were messages wherein he described his current hospital stay and latest health issues; none as vibrant and joyous as this one message I cherished for so long). I fear a day when I might no longer remember the sound of his voice.
So many things remind me of him. Big things like his favorite sports teams, his favorite restaurants, and physical belongings of his, but also small and strange things... Like the other day I was sitting at a red light watching the crosswalk count down to prepare for the light to turn green. Suddenly I remembered being a little girl, in the car with my sister and my Dad, and we were trying to guess when the light would turn green for us. My sister and I kept guessing "...NOW!" "...NOW!", and then my Dad would say "Now!" and the light would change. We thought he was a genius! We could never get it right, but he always seemed to know when the light was about to change. Little did we know that he was watching the blinking hand of the crosswalk sign, and the light turning yellow in the intersection. This made me smile; something as mundane as a traffic light, now reminding me of my Dad.
For this reason, I decided to buy what I'm calling a Memory Journal. A large, substantial, good-quality journal where I can jot down any memories that come to mind about my Dad. Big things and little things. I want to remember everything. I want to be able to share these one day with my children, nieces and nephews, and/or grandchildren. I want to preserve the memory of my Dad, to be as multi-dimensional, as complete, as whole as possible. I think this will help to give me even more purpose in moving on in the absence of my Dad.
If you're grieving the loss of a loved one, this type of journaling may really help you to feel more connected to their memory, and that you are honoring their legacy, and I encourage you to try it.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Just a Dream?
Last night I had the most wonderful and simple dream. What I remember is that my Dad was sitting on a couch, healthy and happy. He was talking, to me I think but I'm not sure because I wasn't really paying attention. I remember thinking "Am I dreaming? I must be. But this feels so real! Maybe God is finally answering my prayer and giving me my Dad again. Here he is just as I wondered what I would do if I ever saw him again." It was at that point that I ran over to him and threw my arms around him. I hugged him and wouldn't let go. I cried a little, but they were tears of joy. I don't remember if we spoke at all, or what we may have said. I remember glancing back and seeing my Mom standing there with tears in her eyes. She turned to wipe them away, and I knew she was so happy for this moment. I really, seriously, have never felt more sure that a dream was reality. I had even gone through the process of questioning of this were just another dream like all the rest, wherein I realized they were dreams while I was experiencing them. This time felt completely different. I can't explain it, except to say that it was real at the time. When I awoke I sat for a few minutes trying to process what just happened. I was coming to grips with the fact that I was just laying in bed after this very vivid dream. I was picturing in my head again and again what he looked like just moments earlier; trying to savor the memory and the feeling. I replayed it over and over in my head. While other times I woke up so emotional that I would begin to cry, this time I did not. I only cried as I was putting together the words to describe this experience just now. My emotions are mixed because I know it was only a dream and my Dad is not here, but I also can't help but feel that perhaps this was a little answered prayer for me, and maybe the only feasible way I could receive what I was asking for, and I should be grateful for that.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Ebbs and Flows
What I've learned through my healing process (oh gosh I hope that's what this is) is that the grief ebbs and flows. Maybe it's not as consistently timed as the ocean waves, but it seems like just as I think I'm starting to hurt a little less, sadness will wash over me.
I can recognize the my coping mechanisms, too. First, there's the ever popular "don't think about this right now and you'll feel better". I use this many times, even subconsciously I'm sure, because there are days when I don't think about my Dad very much, if at all. I feel guilty sometimes about this, but these days are so much easier and more manageable so I figure it's ultimately ok.
Then there's the denial approach. Sometimes I really don't believe that he is gone. It's such a foreign feeling for me still, having him absent from my life. There are times when I just think we've simply been out of touch for a long time. Like I just haven't picked up the phone and called him in a while.
A little of the bargaining stage peeks in here. I think, "if only I could have just the slightest form of communication with him still, then I would feel so much better and be able to live my life." I rationalize that if only I could hear his voice in my head, or just talk to him on the phone, that maybe I could make peace with never seeing him again. Or I wish for one more day, one more hour even, where we could hug and cry and say all the things we didn't have a chance to say.
Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I actually were granted these things. I know God is capable of miracles, and people have visits from ghosts all the time. I wonder what my reaction would be if I saw my Dad again. If the phone rang and he was on the other line. If I heard his voice clearly in my head. Would I be fearful and frozen, unable to react? Would I be so overcome with joy that I run to him with open arms, or cry happy tears? Would I be able to make the most of those moments? And would that experience finally give me peace and closure? Or would I simply become insatiable when it was over, having finally tasted something so sweet and then unable to have it again?
Some days I lay in bed, unable to sleep because I'm trying so hard to think of something, anything, besides my Dad, but he's all that comes to mind.
And sometimes I'm out there living my life, trying to do everything and anything that would have elicited a reaction from him if he were here. Recently I expanded my personal business to have a new storefront location. This is something I had only dreamed of previously. My Dad was always so proud of me and my business and each small success that I experienced. I threw myself into my new project of getting this storefront, believing it was something he would want for me. As I admire the finished product I imagine how proud he would be of me. I envision him walking in and seeing the space and having a reaction only characterized as him; phrases like "nuh-uh" and "no way" and even "cool beans". Ha! I imagine his eyes swelling with tears of pride, and the big hugs that would ensue. I'd tell him about all the amazing deals I got on the furniture pieces, and how I refinished them to look this way; things I know he would be impressed with and react to.
The truth is I feel like I'm always trying to impress him still. I'm trying to do anything that might elicit a reaction on his part. I'm wishing I could hear his voice saying words of praise and elation, an wishing I could feel his presence. Something, anything, that let me know he was with me. It's like this challenge I've given myself, that if I do enough, eventually something will be so monumental that it will warrant an outreach. I'm literally begging for some kind of communication from him. I know, I know... I may be so loud in all of this that I cannot hear the quiet moments that might hold something for me. Maybe I'm not paying attention enough to the subtle messages around me. Maybe he can only do so much, and my expectations are too high. I'm working on this...
But in case you didn't already know, Dad, so much of what I do is for you. So much of how I live my life, and the decisions I make, are to honor you and make you proud.
I can recognize the my coping mechanisms, too. First, there's the ever popular "don't think about this right now and you'll feel better". I use this many times, even subconsciously I'm sure, because there are days when I don't think about my Dad very much, if at all. I feel guilty sometimes about this, but these days are so much easier and more manageable so I figure it's ultimately ok.
Then there's the denial approach. Sometimes I really don't believe that he is gone. It's such a foreign feeling for me still, having him absent from my life. There are times when I just think we've simply been out of touch for a long time. Like I just haven't picked up the phone and called him in a while.
A little of the bargaining stage peeks in here. I think, "if only I could have just the slightest form of communication with him still, then I would feel so much better and be able to live my life." I rationalize that if only I could hear his voice in my head, or just talk to him on the phone, that maybe I could make peace with never seeing him again. Or I wish for one more day, one more hour even, where we could hug and cry and say all the things we didn't have a chance to say.
Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I actually were granted these things. I know God is capable of miracles, and people have visits from ghosts all the time. I wonder what my reaction would be if I saw my Dad again. If the phone rang and he was on the other line. If I heard his voice clearly in my head. Would I be fearful and frozen, unable to react? Would I be so overcome with joy that I run to him with open arms, or cry happy tears? Would I be able to make the most of those moments? And would that experience finally give me peace and closure? Or would I simply become insatiable when it was over, having finally tasted something so sweet and then unable to have it again?
Some days I lay in bed, unable to sleep because I'm trying so hard to think of something, anything, besides my Dad, but he's all that comes to mind.
And sometimes I'm out there living my life, trying to do everything and anything that would have elicited a reaction from him if he were here. Recently I expanded my personal business to have a new storefront location. This is something I had only dreamed of previously. My Dad was always so proud of me and my business and each small success that I experienced. I threw myself into my new project of getting this storefront, believing it was something he would want for me. As I admire the finished product I imagine how proud he would be of me. I envision him walking in and seeing the space and having a reaction only characterized as him; phrases like "nuh-uh" and "no way" and even "cool beans". Ha! I imagine his eyes swelling with tears of pride, and the big hugs that would ensue. I'd tell him about all the amazing deals I got on the furniture pieces, and how I refinished them to look this way; things I know he would be impressed with and react to.
The truth is I feel like I'm always trying to impress him still. I'm trying to do anything that might elicit a reaction on his part. I'm wishing I could hear his voice saying words of praise and elation, an wishing I could feel his presence. Something, anything, that let me know he was with me. It's like this challenge I've given myself, that if I do enough, eventually something will be so monumental that it will warrant an outreach. I'm literally begging for some kind of communication from him. I know, I know... I may be so loud in all of this that I cannot hear the quiet moments that might hold something for me. Maybe I'm not paying attention enough to the subtle messages around me. Maybe he can only do so much, and my expectations are too high. I'm working on this...
But in case you didn't already know, Dad, so much of what I do is for you. So much of how I live my life, and the decisions I make, are to honor you and make you proud.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Heaven - so wonderful, you don't long for your Earthly life?
As many of you know, I have been reading many books that offer 'proof of Heaven'. These books have helped me to develop my vision of this new life my Dad may have; one where he is so full of happiness and love.
In these books, Heaven is described quite consistently as a place that is truly incredible and awe-inspiring. A place where our words simply cannot describe the feeling or the beauty. Colors on Earth pale in comparison. Music in Heaven is more stunning than anything ever heard before. When you enter this place, you are overcome with the feeling of Love, and the reception you receive from all of your deceased loved ones when you are reunited. Recently, I've been struggling with this notion: If Heaven is so incredible, do you no longer yearn for the Earthly life you leave behind?
In a couple of the books I've read, wherein the author has traveled to Heaven and then been revived and come back to Earth, the answer is Yes. They say that while they were in Heaven, they were not thinking about their friends and family that they had left behind. They did not long to return to their Earthly body. They were so fulfilled with the feeling of peace and love that they experienced in Heaven, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing else to worry about.
I suppose a place as perfect as Heaven should inspire these feelings. It should be a place where the soul no longer has doubts or fears or worries, but is rather completely content and filled with love.
But with that being said, I wonder what would ever possess our loved ones to think about us, their friends and family left grieving in their absence here in Earth? Would they ever feel sadness at the fact that they are no longer with us? Would they ever be inclined to reach out to us to make contact or send messages, as I've so often prayed for? Would they ever turn their attention away from the magnificence of Heaven, and look down upon us here on Earth, to experience our milestones or offer their guidance? Maybe the answers are Yes, but they could also be No... After all, if your soul is completely satiated by this place, why would you think about anything else? Is there a place for us, the memories and relationships with loved ones on Earth, up in Heaven?
I began to think that maybe this is why, since his passing, I haven't felt as connected with my Dad as I've hoped for. I try my hardest to be open and aware of my surroundings, so I may recognize even the slightest sign or communication attempt from him. I talk to him often, but I do not hear him talk back. The other morning I sobbed, feeling so alone. "I feel like you've forgotten about me" I said to him. "I feel like maybe you haven't looked back, but have only been looking forward." I even felt selfish for feeling this way; for praying that my Dad was wishing he were with me again, instead of enjoying the perfection of Heaven. It's such a mix of emotions.
I think I may feel this way because I have not yet had that big moment, that experience too meaningful to be coincidence; some sign from my Dad that tells me that he loves me and misses me and is with me. I know I may never get such an experience. But I hope that I may one day, and it will finally give me the 'closure' that I feel I am so desperately searching for.
In these books, Heaven is described quite consistently as a place that is truly incredible and awe-inspiring. A place where our words simply cannot describe the feeling or the beauty. Colors on Earth pale in comparison. Music in Heaven is more stunning than anything ever heard before. When you enter this place, you are overcome with the feeling of Love, and the reception you receive from all of your deceased loved ones when you are reunited. Recently, I've been struggling with this notion: If Heaven is so incredible, do you no longer yearn for the Earthly life you leave behind?
In a couple of the books I've read, wherein the author has traveled to Heaven and then been revived and come back to Earth, the answer is Yes. They say that while they were in Heaven, they were not thinking about their friends and family that they had left behind. They did not long to return to their Earthly body. They were so fulfilled with the feeling of peace and love that they experienced in Heaven, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing else to worry about.
I suppose a place as perfect as Heaven should inspire these feelings. It should be a place where the soul no longer has doubts or fears or worries, but is rather completely content and filled with love.
But with that being said, I wonder what would ever possess our loved ones to think about us, their friends and family left grieving in their absence here in Earth? Would they ever feel sadness at the fact that they are no longer with us? Would they ever be inclined to reach out to us to make contact or send messages, as I've so often prayed for? Would they ever turn their attention away from the magnificence of Heaven, and look down upon us here on Earth, to experience our milestones or offer their guidance? Maybe the answers are Yes, but they could also be No... After all, if your soul is completely satiated by this place, why would you think about anything else? Is there a place for us, the memories and relationships with loved ones on Earth, up in Heaven?
I began to think that maybe this is why, since his passing, I haven't felt as connected with my Dad as I've hoped for. I try my hardest to be open and aware of my surroundings, so I may recognize even the slightest sign or communication attempt from him. I talk to him often, but I do not hear him talk back. The other morning I sobbed, feeling so alone. "I feel like you've forgotten about me" I said to him. "I feel like maybe you haven't looked back, but have only been looking forward." I even felt selfish for feeling this way; for praying that my Dad was wishing he were with me again, instead of enjoying the perfection of Heaven. It's such a mix of emotions.
I think I may feel this way because I have not yet had that big moment, that experience too meaningful to be coincidence; some sign from my Dad that tells me that he loves me and misses me and is with me. I know I may never get such an experience. But I hope that I may one day, and it will finally give me the 'closure' that I feel I am so desperately searching for.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Finding a Place for Faith
I don't know what to call myself, because saying I'm 'spiritual' makes it sound like I sit around burning incense and strumming a cowhide drum, but saying I'm 'religious' makes it sound like I attend church every Sunday and attempt to prophesize to the unsaved. I'm neither of these. I believe in God and all that He has created and how He gently steers the direction of my life while somehow balancing my free will. I've attended church, but do not believe that organized religion is the only way to know God. I believe in Heaven - a place that is more beautiful and wonderful than we can ever imagine, where we go to forever enjoy the company of our loved ones, and where there is no more pain or anger or anything except love.
When my Father passed away, I did not want to turn to God for comfort or guidance. I withdrew from the very idea of God. The notion that God made this part of His plan was unacceptable to me. I could not, in my limited understanding, fathom why God, in all of his wisdom and grace, would give my Dad cancer. And not just any cancer, but Pancreatic cancer, a cancer that literally eats away at a person in the most rapid rate. Why was it part of the plan that my Dad battle this disease, only to ultimately lose? Why was he meant to suffer? And why was he meant to die?
I wondered why God doesn't heal all cancer? He certainly has the power to do so. Why can't He just give the cancer to all the terrible criminals and murders who are filled with evil, instead of inflicting it on a man who served his country, taught the youth of generations, and was the light in so many lives? It just didn't seem fair. I didn't understand. But what's more is, I knew I could never understand.
There is nothing someone can say that will lesson the pain of losing a loved one. And there is no explanation that will make you think "OK, well now that you said that, it all makes perfect sense, and I accept this now". The only thing we can do is attempt to look at the positive ways of reframing the experience, and hope that it's enough to restore just enough faith to carry on.
At first, when my Dad passed away, I asked a few friends who lost a parent to cancer how they coped with the situation. They told me they reminded themselves that the suffering was finally over. So I repeated this mantra to myself in an attempt to feel better. He was no longer in pain; no longer waiting for the inevitable. He was finally at peace.
And I reminded myself that I believed in Heaven, a place where my Dad was not only no longer suffering, but alive and well and thriving. A place where he was himself again. Where he was happy. Where we was with other loved ones he had once mourned, like his parents, his brother, and his best friend. A place where he could still look upon my life and experience milestones with me. And I believe that he can communicate with me in subtle ways, like in the few stories I've shared so far, and some I still have yet to share.
And then I read a few of those books (in my recommended reading) and I adopted a new philosophy. Imagine if you will, a new perspective, where God isn't just this great and powerful being sitting behind a super computer and calling all the shots. Instead, God has fellowship with all of the souls in Heaven. The souls in Heaven have many missions, and they may be sent to Earth in bodily form to live out a lifetime for many purposes, such as to learn things, to teach things, and to experience things. Sometimes it may be part of God's plan to have a soul come to Earth with a mission to influence and impact many people, the ways of which aren't exactly revealed. I believe God offers these missions to the souls in Heaven. And believing this, it made me think that perhaps my Dad's spirit was courageous enough to accept this mission, even though all of the details were not available, simply knowing that he would have a wonderful life and ultimately impact the lives of many people. Perhaps, deep down in his subconscious, he knew his time was short, and perhaps that's why he really did live life to the fullest during his brief 60 years on Earth. Looking back at all of the life experiences he had, one can really see how full and enriched his life was, albeit too short in our opinion.
Believing this also makes me believe that he fulfilled his mission, and did ultimately impact so many lives in everything he did, from his infectious personality, to his molding of young minds, to his final days, which made us all cherish life in a whole new way. It does not make me understand or accept this devastating loss, but believing these things has helped me to have just enough faith to carry on. To still believe in and love God, and find a place for him in making some sense of all this. It's not a perfect answer, but it's something. They say, you must have a test to have a testimony, and this is mine.
When my Father passed away, I did not want to turn to God for comfort or guidance. I withdrew from the very idea of God. The notion that God made this part of His plan was unacceptable to me. I could not, in my limited understanding, fathom why God, in all of his wisdom and grace, would give my Dad cancer. And not just any cancer, but Pancreatic cancer, a cancer that literally eats away at a person in the most rapid rate. Why was it part of the plan that my Dad battle this disease, only to ultimately lose? Why was he meant to suffer? And why was he meant to die?
I wondered why God doesn't heal all cancer? He certainly has the power to do so. Why can't He just give the cancer to all the terrible criminals and murders who are filled with evil, instead of inflicting it on a man who served his country, taught the youth of generations, and was the light in so many lives? It just didn't seem fair. I didn't understand. But what's more is, I knew I could never understand.
There is nothing someone can say that will lesson the pain of losing a loved one. And there is no explanation that will make you think "OK, well now that you said that, it all makes perfect sense, and I accept this now". The only thing we can do is attempt to look at the positive ways of reframing the experience, and hope that it's enough to restore just enough faith to carry on.
At first, when my Dad passed away, I asked a few friends who lost a parent to cancer how they coped with the situation. They told me they reminded themselves that the suffering was finally over. So I repeated this mantra to myself in an attempt to feel better. He was no longer in pain; no longer waiting for the inevitable. He was finally at peace.
And I reminded myself that I believed in Heaven, a place where my Dad was not only no longer suffering, but alive and well and thriving. A place where he was himself again. Where he was happy. Where we was with other loved ones he had once mourned, like his parents, his brother, and his best friend. A place where he could still look upon my life and experience milestones with me. And I believe that he can communicate with me in subtle ways, like in the few stories I've shared so far, and some I still have yet to share.
And then I read a few of those books (in my recommended reading) and I adopted a new philosophy. Imagine if you will, a new perspective, where God isn't just this great and powerful being sitting behind a super computer and calling all the shots. Instead, God has fellowship with all of the souls in Heaven. The souls in Heaven have many missions, and they may be sent to Earth in bodily form to live out a lifetime for many purposes, such as to learn things, to teach things, and to experience things. Sometimes it may be part of God's plan to have a soul come to Earth with a mission to influence and impact many people, the ways of which aren't exactly revealed. I believe God offers these missions to the souls in Heaven. And believing this, it made me think that perhaps my Dad's spirit was courageous enough to accept this mission, even though all of the details were not available, simply knowing that he would have a wonderful life and ultimately impact the lives of many people. Perhaps, deep down in his subconscious, he knew his time was short, and perhaps that's why he really did live life to the fullest during his brief 60 years on Earth. Looking back at all of the life experiences he had, one can really see how full and enriched his life was, albeit too short in our opinion.
Believing this also makes me believe that he fulfilled his mission, and did ultimately impact so many lives in everything he did, from his infectious personality, to his molding of young minds, to his final days, which made us all cherish life in a whole new way. It does not make me understand or accept this devastating loss, but believing these things has helped me to have just enough faith to carry on. To still believe in and love God, and find a place for him in making some sense of all this. It's not a perfect answer, but it's something. They say, you must have a test to have a testimony, and this is mine.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Keeping the Memory Alive
One thing that has helped me and brought me comfort and peace during this healing process has been the mission to keep my Father's memory alive. I've done this in several ways that others may find helpful:
- I started a Keep the Memory Alive webpage which collects donations for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network in honor of my Dad.
- I took two of his rings, had them engraved with his initial(s), and sized down for my sister and I to wear every day.
- We planned a Celebration of Life event for all of his friends and family, completed with a slideshow of images of his life.
- I had his obituary framed along with an invitation to his Celebration of Life.
- I created a shadowbox display with his Navy medals and awards.
- I created a scrapbook album of his childhood pictures, Naval certificates, and other keepsakes.
- I had his watch repaired as a gift for my husband to wear.
- I created a photo collage of pictures of the two of us all combined into one image.
I'm still working on more ways to honor him and keep his memory alive, and will be sure to include the new developments in a later post.
- I started a Keep the Memory Alive webpage which collects donations for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network in honor of my Dad.
- I took two of his rings, had them engraved with his initial(s), and sized down for my sister and I to wear every day.
- We planned a Celebration of Life event for all of his friends and family, completed with a slideshow of images of his life.
- I had his obituary framed along with an invitation to his Celebration of Life.
- I created a shadowbox display with his Navy medals and awards.
- I created a scrapbook album of his childhood pictures, Naval certificates, and other keepsakes.
- I had his watch repaired as a gift for my husband to wear.
- I created a photo collage of pictures of the two of us all combined into one image.
I'm still working on more ways to honor him and keep his memory alive, and will be sure to include the new developments in a later post.
Getting Your Time To Say Goodbye
I need to preface this post by saying that many people who are close to my Dad may find this hard to read. Looking back on the final days I spent with my Dad, I have so many mixed emotions, the hardest of which to deal with is regret. And isn't that the source of so much of our grief after the loss of a loved one?
This memory begins with the fact that during my Dad's battle with cancer, there were many instances where we were left waiting for news or action from medical staff. I remember the time we drove to Jacksonville to spend the weekend with him when he was first hospitalized after the biopsy and we were expecting to hear the test results. The weekend came and went without a visit or even call from the physician. We had hoped to be there as a source of support when/if he was informed that is was in fact cancer, but he ended up receiving the news after we returned to our homes. Another time we visited because there was talk of a surgery to improve his digestion. Yet another visit where nothing occurred, only mixed messages from doctors, surgeons, and nurses, until ultimately the day came that we needed to get back home and leave my Dad in the hospital at the mercy of the staff. Now don't get me wrong, he received many excellent treatments from talented medical staff members over the course of his 18 month battle with Pancreatic Cancer; a survival time that was extended far beyond most patients of this disease. But suffice it to say that there were several instances where we felt very powerless in the process, and our efforts to be present as a source of comfort and support for a major medical event were often stunted by the inefficiencies of the facility.
This final visit, the doctors asked "Where is his family?" and "How soon could they get here" so we knew it was imperative that we make the trip. Still, we had heard these words before and spent days on end waiting for news that never came, so we questioned if the staff were again crying wolf. We finished our workdays and drove in the night to arrive at the hospital. The room was filled with people, all of whom were close to my Dad. He was in his hospital bed, clearly tired and weak. It just wasn't the time for a deep and heartfelt exchange. So we said hello and gave hugs and kisses, which already seemed difficult for him to provide. Looking back now, knowing how quickly he declined, I wish I had jumped in the car when I first received the phone call. Maybe if I had arrived earlier it would have been different.
Over the next couple of days, we rotated among seats in the room, taking turns at his bedside. He rested often, and we didn't want to disturb him when he did. This great crowd of friends and loved ones together like the old days, chatting and watching the sports games on TV, swapping stories and ignoring the elephant in the room. I'm sure much of this was appreciated by my Dad; getting to feel like he wasn't dying. But we didn't get to have those quiet and tender moments, one-one-one, during those couple of days. They were the last days he could speak much, if even at all. If we had known, perhaps we would have made the effort to demand this alone time with him.
I remember one instance where he gathered his strength to give my sister a hug goodnight before we left for the night. I teared up because I knew how difficult it was for him to do it, and I felt selfish asking for one for myself, so I just gave him a kiss. Regret number one million I guess...
As his health declined, it seemed the right opportunity to attempt to "say goodbye" never really presented itself. Each day more friends would stop by to see him one last time, and they rallied together as a wonderful source of comfort and support for each other - this group of friends who knew each other for the better part of 30 years. I didn't want them to feel like they couldn't be there. I didn't want them to know that I felt more and more alone each day. That the hope of any last intimate words with my Dad was slipping further and further from my fingers, just as he, the Dad I knew, was drifting further away from me. I thought, who was I to ask them to leave, except a truly selfish person? When I stayed, I was disconnected. When I left, I was disconnected. There was no escape.
When you picture someone dying, and saying your goodbyes, you envision a scene from a movie, wherein the dying person looks into the eyes of their loved one and makes any apologies, tells them how much they are loved, and promises to always be there in spirit. I experienced none of these things.
The moment I shared a goodbye with my Father, he had been unresponsive for days. I was the last to have my alone time, through my own request as I wanted to make sure my sister had her time before me. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he was sleeping, but there was no nod of his head or squeeze of his hand to show he knew I was there. His fight had been so long and so tortured, even up until his final breaths, that I just wanted it to be over finally. I just wanted the pain to stop, and for him to be free from his failing body. I told him I was so sorry for all the ways that I hurt him; my rebellious and hormonal teenage tendencies that shut him out for many years; the fact that I didn't visit him enough when I had the chance; so many more things I couldn't put into words but wanted to apologize for. I told him how much I loved him, and what a wonderful father he was, especially over the last couple of years when he wanted nothing more than to get close to me again. I told him it was OK to let go; that it was OK to die. I wanted to believe that I felt that way. I just wanted him to not hurt anymore. But really I would never be ready for him to leave me. Really I was trying to be strong for him. Really I wanted him to say something or do something to let me know that he heard me, and that everything was going to somehow be OK.
If you think the brief exchange while dying in a movie scene feels horribly incomplete and insufficient, then I cannot begin to explain the void that is left when you do not exchange these words at all. Part of me hopes that he heard everything I said, and yet part of me hopes that his soul had left his body to find peace long before I said those words.
The message I hope to impart to anyone reading this is of course to share those important and personal words with the people you love. If there is ever an instance where you believe you may not see them again, and you have the opportunity to exchange these words, please do it. Don't pretend that everything is OK and there will be another moment. Don't worry that it is not appropriate. Don't feel like it's selfish to make this time, and this experience, a priority. If I could do it all again differently, I would have, as politely as I could, asked for that time with him sooner. And I would have hoped that everyone would understand and oblige. But even if they didn't, I don't think I would have cared, because I would have received such a precious gift of having that tender moment with him and cherishing his response. And this is the part where anyone close to my Dad would not enjoy reading, because it might make them feel guilty for being present, and that is not how I want them to feel at all. How could they know that this was what I wanted or needed at the time, when I never communicated it to anyone? They cannot and should not feel responsible for the fact that I missed that opportunity with him. It's just something I struggle with now because I don't have that essential piece of closure, and the only way I can possibly re-frame it to be more positive is to share the experience and hope that others take away this simple message:
Embrace the opportunity to say goodbye.
This memory begins with the fact that during my Dad's battle with cancer, there were many instances where we were left waiting for news or action from medical staff. I remember the time we drove to Jacksonville to spend the weekend with him when he was first hospitalized after the biopsy and we were expecting to hear the test results. The weekend came and went without a visit or even call from the physician. We had hoped to be there as a source of support when/if he was informed that is was in fact cancer, but he ended up receiving the news after we returned to our homes. Another time we visited because there was talk of a surgery to improve his digestion. Yet another visit where nothing occurred, only mixed messages from doctors, surgeons, and nurses, until ultimately the day came that we needed to get back home and leave my Dad in the hospital at the mercy of the staff. Now don't get me wrong, he received many excellent treatments from talented medical staff members over the course of his 18 month battle with Pancreatic Cancer; a survival time that was extended far beyond most patients of this disease. But suffice it to say that there were several instances where we felt very powerless in the process, and our efforts to be present as a source of comfort and support for a major medical event were often stunted by the inefficiencies of the facility.
This final visit, the doctors asked "Where is his family?" and "How soon could they get here" so we knew it was imperative that we make the trip. Still, we had heard these words before and spent days on end waiting for news that never came, so we questioned if the staff were again crying wolf. We finished our workdays and drove in the night to arrive at the hospital. The room was filled with people, all of whom were close to my Dad. He was in his hospital bed, clearly tired and weak. It just wasn't the time for a deep and heartfelt exchange. So we said hello and gave hugs and kisses, which already seemed difficult for him to provide. Looking back now, knowing how quickly he declined, I wish I had jumped in the car when I first received the phone call. Maybe if I had arrived earlier it would have been different.
Over the next couple of days, we rotated among seats in the room, taking turns at his bedside. He rested often, and we didn't want to disturb him when he did. This great crowd of friends and loved ones together like the old days, chatting and watching the sports games on TV, swapping stories and ignoring the elephant in the room. I'm sure much of this was appreciated by my Dad; getting to feel like he wasn't dying. But we didn't get to have those quiet and tender moments, one-one-one, during those couple of days. They were the last days he could speak much, if even at all. If we had known, perhaps we would have made the effort to demand this alone time with him.
I remember one instance where he gathered his strength to give my sister a hug goodnight before we left for the night. I teared up because I knew how difficult it was for him to do it, and I felt selfish asking for one for myself, so I just gave him a kiss. Regret number one million I guess...
As his health declined, it seemed the right opportunity to attempt to "say goodbye" never really presented itself. Each day more friends would stop by to see him one last time, and they rallied together as a wonderful source of comfort and support for each other - this group of friends who knew each other for the better part of 30 years. I didn't want them to feel like they couldn't be there. I didn't want them to know that I felt more and more alone each day. That the hope of any last intimate words with my Dad was slipping further and further from my fingers, just as he, the Dad I knew, was drifting further away from me. I thought, who was I to ask them to leave, except a truly selfish person? When I stayed, I was disconnected. When I left, I was disconnected. There was no escape.
When you picture someone dying, and saying your goodbyes, you envision a scene from a movie, wherein the dying person looks into the eyes of their loved one and makes any apologies, tells them how much they are loved, and promises to always be there in spirit. I experienced none of these things.
The moment I shared a goodbye with my Father, he had been unresponsive for days. I was the last to have my alone time, through my own request as I wanted to make sure my sister had her time before me. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he was sleeping, but there was no nod of his head or squeeze of his hand to show he knew I was there. His fight had been so long and so tortured, even up until his final breaths, that I just wanted it to be over finally. I just wanted the pain to stop, and for him to be free from his failing body. I told him I was so sorry for all the ways that I hurt him; my rebellious and hormonal teenage tendencies that shut him out for many years; the fact that I didn't visit him enough when I had the chance; so many more things I couldn't put into words but wanted to apologize for. I told him how much I loved him, and what a wonderful father he was, especially over the last couple of years when he wanted nothing more than to get close to me again. I told him it was OK to let go; that it was OK to die. I wanted to believe that I felt that way. I just wanted him to not hurt anymore. But really I would never be ready for him to leave me. Really I was trying to be strong for him. Really I wanted him to say something or do something to let me know that he heard me, and that everything was going to somehow be OK.
If you think the brief exchange while dying in a movie scene feels horribly incomplete and insufficient, then I cannot begin to explain the void that is left when you do not exchange these words at all. Part of me hopes that he heard everything I said, and yet part of me hopes that his soul had left his body to find peace long before I said those words.
The message I hope to impart to anyone reading this is of course to share those important and personal words with the people you love. If there is ever an instance where you believe you may not see them again, and you have the opportunity to exchange these words, please do it. Don't pretend that everything is OK and there will be another moment. Don't worry that it is not appropriate. Don't feel like it's selfish to make this time, and this experience, a priority. If I could do it all again differently, I would have, as politely as I could, asked for that time with him sooner. And I would have hoped that everyone would understand and oblige. But even if they didn't, I don't think I would have cared, because I would have received such a precious gift of having that tender moment with him and cherishing his response. And this is the part where anyone close to my Dad would not enjoy reading, because it might make them feel guilty for being present, and that is not how I want them to feel at all. How could they know that this was what I wanted or needed at the time, when I never communicated it to anyone? They cannot and should not feel responsible for the fact that I missed that opportunity with him. It's just something I struggle with now because I don't have that essential piece of closure, and the only way I can possibly re-frame it to be more positive is to share the experience and hope that others take away this simple message:
Embrace the opportunity to say goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)