I was looking at the calendar today and for some reason, I decided to see how many days have passed since we lost Dad. Today is day forty, which seems relevant considering we’re a couple of weeks into the Lenten season – forty days. The first thing that hits me is how fast it’s gone. Seems like just yesterday we were gathered around him wondering when God would be ready for him. Seems like even less time since I stood there holding him up for the last time when he said he wanted to walk but couldn’t. I’ve said a hundred times how I’d give anything for those twenty minutes we stood there.
In the past forty days, I’ve really tried to back off the day after day post of how he’s gone. I posted a few pics about our Saturday walks that I’m trying to carry on. I’ve had my moments of smiles followed by tears, and I’m sure I’m not done. I guess I figure if I continue to post about losing him, I’ll never get to the process of figuring out how to live without him around.
Interesting piece here; My mom has never been alone in her life. She was a twin at birth and always had someone with her, her twin, her family, her friends, and then Dad and my brother. To be honest, I thought she’d be a mess, but I have to admit, she’s surprised me. She’s taking on the role of sole home owner with gusto. She’s trying to learn what she always told Dad she was too dumb to learn when he was around – and to her credit, Dad was not a patient teacher. I told him once he reminded me of a TA I had in college who would partially work a problem, then tell us we can figure it out easily from there. Problem was, HE could easily figure it out, the rest of us hit the wall. I think Dad took that to heart, as he did any criticism of him, and tried to walk her through things more, but between her ‘wall of dumb’ that she’d throw up there and his lack of patience, he often ended up doing most everything. But she’s learning. She’s staying on her own, making her own meals, running her own errands, and doing all she can in her new normal. She’s said numerous times that she did her grieving the past two years as the disease engulfed Dad. He wasn’t the man we all knew anymore. We’d see glimpses of him, but Parkinson’s finally stole him from us. The last six months of his life were taxing on Mom, trying to be his caregiver and rock was a lot for her. I think his death, sad to say, was a weight off her shoulders. She’d take it back in a heartbeat, but it was a positive for her.
From the texts I’ve received from my brother, he’s having a harder time. I think being so far away, then spending a couple of weeks at the end of Dad’s life was taxing on him too. But I am also very thankful he was there. I think it let him say some things to Dad that wouldn’t have been said otherwise, simply because Dad, like me, wasn’t all that into sharing feelings. But I think having Dad as a captive audience, for lack of better term, was good for both of them. He got to say what he needed to say, and although he was sedated, he got to hear what he needed to hear. When I listen to the song ‘Monsters’ by James Blunt, I am taken to that moment in the song where he says ‘you can feel my hand on your arm’. My brother and I stood over Dad, playing that song, touching his arm and bawling! I really hope somehow Dad heard the words and understood.
As for me, again, I’m shocked it’s been forty days. Maybe I’ve just been busy with making changes for Mom and trying to get her settled that I just haven’t had time to really focus on it. Don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of utter ugly crying, but I try to focus on the years I was lucky to have him and daily thank him for continuing to guide me. I’ve told the story a hundred times before of the song Hotel California and how when I’m down or going through a rough spot, that song plays and reminds me of a retreat weekend I went on, and I believe that’s God’s way of reminding me that He’s got me. This morning was one of those moments where I heard the song and instantly felt a sense of relief. So far, so good today.
So as for the title of this entry, I don’t know. Will it ever get easier, or will we just get used to it? I tend to think it’s a little of both. You come to the realization that the phone call to Dad will never happen again. He’ll never be able to answer my questions again. As he and I always said, everything we do is a choice, some harder than others. In this case, I can choose to crumble, or I can take it as Dad guiding me to find my own answers. Trial and error. Baptism by fire. Call it what you may, but I think that’s what’s in the works here. It’s like pulling off that band-aid. You don’t want to do it, you’d prefer someone else do it, but in the end, you grit your teeth and make it happen, and a few minutes later, you’ve moved on. I don’t want to move on from missing my Dad. I won’t. That’s my choice. But now is the perfect time to reflect on the lessons he gave. So maybe it doesn’t really get easier, it just becomes a new version of normal? The pain will always be there, but it will lessen over time?
The past forty days have been a blur. But in that time, I have grown. I think that was expected. I see it daily in my interactions with others, my decisions, and how I approach this gift called life. Mine’s far from perfect, and there’s a lot of holes to dig out of, but Dad showed me how to use a shovel and gave me the tools to climb out. It’s just up to me to follow through.
I’m not sure how to close this one. Maybe if you’re someone dealing with a death or just having a rough time with a relationship, job, etc…, maybe this will help. Lower your expectations and quit anticipating what might happen. Just be open to change, good or bad, and accept the results. But be open to anything. Who knows when the smallest thing might fix what ails you? Even if you aren’t looking for it, just like I don’t look for Hotel California. It finds me when I need it. Same with seeing a cardinal. When I look for one, it’s not there. That’s not the time it’s needed.
So here’s to finishing off the next forty days with personal growth, less emotional pain, and a clearer memory of what we had in hopes it will help us make today better, and show us an even better tomorrow.
Random Thoughts of an Ordinary Average Guy 