My dad died March 15, 2017 at 3:51 p.m. By a chance of fate, I was with him when he died. It seemed that the minute or two leading to his final breath were in slow motion and went on forever, suspended in time, as we approach the finality of his time here. Frozen in that moment, my husband and I stood there by his bedside, holding him. Again, what might have been only seconds gave into a feeling of a long, long pause. The world stopped at 3:51pm. The world we knew. The quiet of the moment quickly left as we “came to” enough to realize we had to communicate with the others who had been holding vigil. Trying to come back into the reality was tough, as we were both numb, shocked. Now what? My husband called my brother to let him know and asked him to go pick up our mother who had not left our dad’s bedside, except only minutes before after being encouraged to go get some rest while we sat with dad.
And as we gathered together in dad’s room, others started
arriving – dad’s priest, the hospice social worker and nurse and then, finally,
the mortuary staff. The vigil continued until dad left and then with nothing more to do, feeling the stark void, we headed to
our home place where people were gathering.
It is all a blur.
In my sensory overload state, I couldn’t help but notice as
family gathered, the room began to fill. Watching from afar, as I sat there in
the midst, I noted the phones going off throughout the room, loud and intrusive.
The noise level continued to build with a crescendo as the conversation picked
up speed and volume. The calls for each family member, from their own circle of
people, were rolling in. As if managing the calls on one phone weren’t enough,
people were calling my mom and she would hand me the phone. Holding two phones,
I would talk to her caller, but then she would decide she could talk too. The
connections in that moment, went way beyond managing it. We just did our best
to respond, going through the movements. At moments, I would retreat. Needing quiet I
would take a moment and disappear to the next room, in my mom’s bedroom. Staying
there only for a minute or two, or five or ten, I am not sure, before going
back out into the family room.
Everyone does grief differently. Everyone experiences death
differently. Of course, this death was my dad.
And even if it was the right order, (He was 84 years old and the first
one to die in our family, including extended family on both sides.), and he was,
“Now out of pain,” and “Now in a better place.” And “It was for the best.” And
“He was out of his suffering.” And, “He
lived a good life.” And all those things people say to you . . . all those
things that make some sense, didn’t make sense at this moment.
All of this was part of the sensory overload, my shock
symptoms. Too many people, too much
noise, too many connections via phone conversations and texts. No time to sit and be still. Let’s talk about dad. Let’s share some memories. Can we just sit still and talk about dad, our
dad, the dad that raised us, taught us so much, shared his values with us,
disappointed us at times, made us proud, always supported us? Whatever the feelings – can we just talk? Everyone
does their grief differently. Some want
to talk. Some want to distract from the
raw pain by doing things that don’t matter or doing the things that do matter. Some
want to avoid it altogether and leave. Some, like me, want to talk about it
with those I am closest to, with those that have the same memories. Some, like
me, find they have no energy to take care of anyone else at the moment. They
just can’t do it. They can’t worry about
making others feel better. Some experience all of the above at different
points. Some have other ways to deal with their pain. Some aren’t feeling anything right now and
going through the motions is the easiest way to get through it. Most do experience feelings of numbness. How can we let this in all at once? It is our protection.
I thought I had accepted the inevitable and was ready for
dad to move on. He had no quality of life with his disease. It wasn’t until his
death, that I could really allow myself to grieve; grieve all that was slowly
taken away these past two years, grieve the loss of my dad and all he brought
to my world during his lifetime; grieve the person that is no longer here. Of course, in my shock state I have only
begun this process. I hope to be
accepting of where I am in the moment, not judging of it, but aware in a
mindful way of what stage I might be in, what my needs are in the moment, and
give myself permission to be wherever I am at this moment. After all, in death that is all we really can
do.
6 comments:
Hi Janie, I am so glad you were with your dad. I was with mine too at that moment. This month on the 24th it will be 10 years ago. Love your heart.
That is exactly what I'm still feeling after loosing my dad on 4-30-16. My mom is in hospice and in a few short days, weeks or possibly months, I will be a 60 year old orphan and that is hard to comprehend. Patti vincent
Patti, I am so sorry to hear you are experiencing such a difficult time. One parent is enough at a time! Sending you light and love to keep your heart protected.
Teri I can't believe how young you were to lose your dad. That must have been hard. He was lucky to have you at his side. Love your heart.
Hello Janie, you are generous to share with us and I know your words and experiences are from are from such a deep and trusting place. I would love to hear more about your Dad when we find time to connect. I knew him through you and was always aware you had one of the great Dads! But I didn't really know him even with meeting him a few times. So all stories and memories will always be welcome. Know that. Grief does have its way with us and you are right to know that it's different for everyone. Take all the time you need for grieving. I don't even know that there is an end point to grief for our closest loved ones. I will continue to hold you in heart and mind and I do honor your journey. Know that I'll come your way when you are ready or if you need a little respite, I'll meet you in Lincoln or Omaha. Thank you for all that you are and the deep sensitivities that are yours and for the wisdom to reflect upon your needs and experiences at this time. Love to your good heart and hugs, just because! Thank you again for your sharing. Grief is a sacred journey and I hope you are honored at every stage.
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