Reflections on Losing Dad Even Before He Was Gone & After

*Part I

Dad is cold despite the thermostat reading 78 degrees.
I watch my mother help him with his sweatshirt
He is tangled in the heart of the clothing and a little panicked
Mom is patient. Dedicated. Sorrowful. Grieving.
She guides his arm to the sleeve
He unintentionally works against her—the bit of progress they had made is undone as he pulls the sweatshirt back over his head as if to take it off.
A deep breath. And begin again.
This time it’s on.

Part II

The personality is gone
The vanity is gone
The reasoning is gone
The humor is gone
The balance is gone
The connection is gone
The grandfather is gone
The father is gone
The husband is gone
But. he. is. still. here.

Part III

The rabbi says a prayer in front of our family, and tells us how he too, has been through this.
I realize that he is distracting us from what is behind him.
There it is.
They are carrying the box. The coffin. It looks like it is unfinished wood. Light.

There it is. Oh my Dad. My dad is in there. I don’t want him to be in there. I want him to be beside me. Holding my hand maybe at some other occasion. I want him out of there.  Please let him out of there.

They attach the coffin to the straps that will lower it---that will lower him—his body down under the ground. Please. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Please.

They lower it down. That light-colored box. Everyone is watching.

The service happens. Words are said in Hebrew and English.

~
The burial begins.
It’s my turn for the spade of dirt.

I climb on the boards that frame the enormous yet small hole that swallows the coffin.

I can’t do this. I can’t put this dirt on the box. I see the Jewish star on the coffin.

I balance and scoop the dirt.

I toss it on the box to join the small pile begun by my mother.  My mother who has lost her soulmate.

It is my sister’s turn. This is impossible for her, too. We are his girls.

Part IV

Shiva. 

Now I sit on my mother’s patio…one ear naturally listening for the sound of my dad’s sneakers to signal he will join us with his gin and tonic and his cigar.   May I hear those steps, look up and see him again?  I want to give him a big hug and kiss and tell him, that I love him--that I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts in my heart, my head, my bones. 

I fear that I will only remember the last few years when he was sick for they are seemingly all-consuming. I feel guilty for not wanting to remember those times…it was still him. It was still my father in there. But it was so hard--so much work to connect. I felt I was being condescending to him, so disrespectful to the smartest man I knew.

How will I get through this?  How do people do this?

Dreams

It's more than six years since Dad died.  I have seen him in my dreams several times.  He surprises me there, and he looks so very good each time. Handsome and healthy.  I always say the same thing, “Hi, Daddy!” Like I did when I would welcome him home from work as a little girl. He hugs me tightly and makes me feel that everything is okay even though he does not say a word.   I wake up with tears every time.

My memories of him being sick, being not himself, are mercifully fading.

*My father diagnosed himself from an article in the New England Journal of Medicine with PPA (Primary Progressive Aphasia) which was soon after confirmed by his doctors.  Over the course of a few years, he lost the ability to speak well, then to speak much at all.  Other faculties declined along the way including coordination.  It was a living nightmare for him.  My mother was an incredible wife and caregiver. My sister and I were as strong as we could be.  He passed away in June 2007 at the age of 60.  I wrote these reflections at the time of their context.  Edited for the blog.