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.
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