Billy, Vickie, and I had been sitting with Dad when his breathing changed and we knew he was about to go. Billy went to get Aunt Carrie and Judy, and we were all there when he took his last breath. And then Vickie shaved his face. Then we noticed that there was barely a trace of yellow left in his skin. Then we realized that his face had relaxed into a sort of grin.
Every day from January 1 to January 12, 2011 was the worst day of my life. Every day it got harder to see my dad get worse. Every day I woke up feeling less prepared to take on the unknown challenges I waited to endure. I don't know how Vickie brought herself to shave his face, or how she knew what a difference it would make, but that was the sign that healing could begin.
I wish I could make this easier on you guys, he had told me.
That's not your job, Dad, I had responded. You're the one who is dying, I had thought. And anyway, the only way this would be any easier is if we weren't going to miss you so much, I'd said aloud.
Thank you for saying that, he'd whispered.
It's not easy. It's very, very hard. But I have now seen what it is like to die a difficult death before your time. And I have now felt what it is like to endure the loss of your father before his time. There is no question, in my mind, about which one is more difficult. And I know that any sadness I feel about being unable to tell Dad about what has happened over the past year, or heartbreak I feel that he didn't get to meet Nora, is far outweighed by the sadness and heartbreak Dad felt in the days, weeks, and months leading up to January 12. He may have put on a brave face and made us laugh, but he knew what he was going to be missing. And still he managed to be concerned about us.
We're okay, Dad-- Nate, Vickie, Nora, and me. We have good days and we have bad days. We have each other. We have Billy, Ashley, and Tres. We have plenty of other people around us who love and support us. And we miss you terribly. But we have known that you wanted us to heal, and we've been working on it since she shaved your face. We know because you taught us. You refused to allow cancer to define your life while you were fighting it, so we know we can refuse to allow it to define our lives now that we've lost you.
I love you, Dad. I didn't know it then, but you did make it "easier" to live without you by teaching me how and when to stand tall on my own and how and when to lean on others.
Liz, my heart breaks for you all today. I hope the day is peaceful and kind. I'm thinking of you. And I don't even know how to address your sister shaving your father's face. Sometimes those symbols un-bashful caring are too much to understand. How amazing to be human. Anyway, I'm sending thoughts to you.
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ReplyDeleteThat you can even write about your dad's death with clarity and poignancy merely a year after the fact is remarkable. Or, it would be remarkable for anyone else. It's perhaps less remarkable coming from you, simply because you are not one to shirk on mental and emotional work. :) And it's obvious that in a year's time you have committed to and been intentional about doing the mental and emotional work of grieving. That you have done this while also bearing, birthing, and raising your first child astounds me. What a year you have had.
ReplyDeleteOne of my favorite things about you is the way you cultivate a rich inner life. I'm so grateful you share parts of it with us. :)
Oh how I needed that smirk. Thanks for sharing, sissy. Love you.
ReplyDeleteThis is a beautiful post - I teared up :) Thinking of you and yours, always.
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