One Week

It's been exactly a week since my dad died.  

Today we cleaned out his apartment.

Today I placed obituaries.

Today has been rough.

Super rough.

Sort of "am I having a nervous breakdown?" rough.

But that's part of all of this.

And today really hit me how hard grief is to witness.

It's terrible to experience, but it's not a lot easier to witness.

And that's why we try to say things to ease the other person's pain.  "It will get better."  "This won't last forever."  "Things will get easier."  Etc., etc., etc.  I've said them all too and I'm not saying that we shouldn't say them.  I'm just suggesting that part of the reason we say them is that we want to have a way to help someone in pain and there's simply no way to fix grief...so we remind people it gets better.  Which it does.  But knowing that it's going to get better doesn't make it hurt less now.  

Today my family witnessed my pain.  And it hurt them.  And that hurts me.  But I can't pretend I don't have it.  That serves no one's purpose.  So I explain to my kids that I hurt right now and that it's just part of the process.  And hopefully, when they are in the midst of grief some day, they'll know that it's just part of the process that it hurts.  And that some days hurt more than others.  

And my husband.  I don't even know what to say about him.  This sucks for him to watch.  Not to mention he's grieving too.  He had a unique relationship with my dad.  And he's lost that too.  He and I have had a LONG six months.  We've had very little time together to just have fun.  The blows keep coming.  Yet he continues to hold me up.  But it's hard to watch pain.  Especially when you have your own too.  I love him.  I am so incredibly grateful that he is the one beside me as I make my way through this life.  

Today has been hard.  Today was a day when I have had a hard time finding the strength, or the desire, to smile.  My eyes are burning from all the tears.  My heart actually aches.  My body hurts.  Tomorrow I intend to stay in my pajamas all day, watch some football and just "be".  Just do nothing but exist.  It's clear that's what my soul needs right now.  And, even if for just a day, I'm going honor that need.  

Too Many Questions, No Real Answers

Here's the thing about death...we all want answers.  We want to know why things happen the way they do.  And the reality of life is that we simply aren't supposed to know everything. 

I want to know why my mom got ovarian cancer and why she had to die at 73.  I don't get to have that answer.

I want to know why my dad, who was doing so well, suddenly went downhill quickly and died in a matter of weeks at 78.  I don't know that I'll get to have that answer either.

I want to know why my husband and I spent an entire summer uprooting ourselves, buying and selling a house, and moving closer to my dad, so that I could have lunch with him more often, only to have him die before I could even begin to do that.  Why?  

Sure...my mom's death taught me a lot and changed my life trajectory.  That's huge.  I expect my dad's death with do the same.  Yes, my husband has a much nicer commute from our new home.  Sure...I can find all the positives.  And maybe those are the only answers that exist.  But I still want more.

But just because you want something doesn't mean you get to have it.  And that's simply the way life works.  

I don't have to like it though....

Bullet Points

* I am SO tired.  Normal stuff wears me out.  How many times have I told postpartum moms that just because they don't see the wound their placenta left inside of them doesn't mean it's not there.  Sit the hell down!  There may be no physical wound with grief, but my heart feels broken.  And it's reminding me to sit down too.

* I sat in the ferry line for 20 minutes tonight and THREE separate times thought, "Oh, I have to call dad." and then three separate times I was reminded that I never get to do that again.  Old habits are hard to break.

* I'm an introvert.  I hate talking on the phone.  I have done more talking on the phone in the past three days than I probably have in the last year.  :o

* The little stuff is too much.  Moldy bread when I need bread.  Expired cashew milk when I want cashew milk.  The cats are out of snacks and yelling at me.  That's the stuff that pushes me over the edge.  

* My house is a MESS.  A MESS!  It makes me overwhelmed and angry.  

* I want my normal life back.  And then I don't.  Because, when "normal" tries to return, I know I'm still going to feel lost.  But "normal" will never be the same "normal".  It was, at times, hard to take care of my dad.  It was, at times, exhausting and I gave up a lot of other things in my life to do it.  But I would take all that back in a heartbeat.  

* I'm not sure I'll ever stop feeling like I failed him.  There I said it out loud.  For all the world to see.  Part of my brain knows that is so far from the truth and the other side is an asshole and likes to tell stories.  He just deserved better than this.  And I couldn't stop it.  I couldn't make it not happen.  And that sucks.  

* And I know that I won't feel like this forever.  I do know that.  But I also know I have to fell ALL of this.  It's part of the process.  No matter how much I hate it.  And so I talk about it so when others are going through it, they know they aren't alone.  That many others have walked the path before them, many are walking it with them, and many will walk it later.  None of us escape this.  Grief will touch us all at some point.  

*If you're reading this, and you're local, come to my Death Cafe next Monday.  Let's talk more about Death.  As if this blog isn't fun enough.  ;)

  

Macadamia Nuts

My dad loved macadamia nuts.  I have purchased him a jar of them for every birthday of his for as long as I can remember.  Oftentimes, I'd be out somewhere and see macadamia nuts and just buy them for him as a fun surprise.  

At the beginning of the month, one of my clients brought me a package of chocolate covered macadamia nuts directly from Hawaii.  Dad was in the hospital at the time so I brought them with me and shared them with him.  He only ate one or two but he enjoyed them.  

I forgot I had them in my bag until I went to work yesterday and found them.  I had 7 hours of straight back-to-back appointments last night and was starving on my way home.  I pulled out those macadamia nuts and started eating them only to realize that those damn macadamia nuts outlived my dad.  What the hell?  And then I found myself sobbing the rest of the way home.  

I was mad last night.  Honestly, I still am.  I am so damn mad about all of this.  I have spent all morning making phone calls and sending e-mails.  There is so much "stuff" to do.  But, boy does it keep my mind busy.  The early mornings when I wake up, I am reminded of my grief.  My body aches.  I can keep going and push the grief down now and then, but my body is carrying it.  In every fiber of my body.  It is holding it for me for when I am able to let it go in bits and pieces.  This is the hard, intense grief.  I know it won't always feel like this. But it's going to take time.  And I have to let it take it's own time.  

I find myself having a hard time coming up with words, or memories, or dates. I have to force myself to eat.  A reminder of the grief work I'm doing. 

I am overwhelmed and exhausted and kinda want to lie in bed all day.  And maybe I will when I take some time off in a couple of weeks.  But for now, I need to keep moving for a bit.  But it's just one day at a time.  That's all I have to do.  One little day at a time.   

The Day After

Last night, around 6:45pm, my dad (the dapper looking guy above) died.  I sat vigil for nearly a week.  He was clearly dying.  We were administering morphine every two hours.  But it doesn't matter.  When death comes, it feels shocking and sudden.  

Today I begin my walk with grief again.  It was almost exactly six years ago when I met grief up close for the first time when I lost my mom.  I didn't understand death and grief then.  I hated them both.  But, as I have become to know them over the past six years, I have grown to appreciate the lessons they bring.  I have said many times that death and I are friends now.  That doesn't mean you don't get really mad at your friends now and then.

As most of you know, I am a grief counselor.  I am a Death Midwife.  This is MY work.  I live Death and Grief.  But that doesn't mean that I don't feel pain when they arrive in my life (or the lives of others).  That doesn't mean that I don't question lots of things and feel angst over the way this whole human experience works.

Nonetheless, one of the things I definitely know is how to walk this path.  I don't know where it will lead me this time.  I know it's full of twists and turns and lots and lots of hot coals.  But I know I must walk it.  And so, today, I begin.  

Today begins, what I call, The Year of Firsts.  All the Firsts that will come without my dad.  It begins with waking up for the first time without my dad on this Earth.  Hey, look, I did that!  :)  This is the first morning I've been home since last Monday.  Tuesday through Saturday I woke up on a couch or a recliner at my dad's, every two-three hours in order to give him meds.  I generally woke hearing him working harder and harder to breathe.  Today I woke up in silence in my own bed, with my husband and my cats.  And I felt like I had been in a fist fight.  Every muscle hurts. 

I had two mini Milky Way candy bars and a stale Domino's Pizza bread stick for breakfast.  Breakfast of Grievers.  

I've spent the entire morning dealing with death "stuff".  There's so much "stuff" that needs to be handled after someone dies.  And there's still so much stuff to do.  I need to take a shower and then Olly and I are heading to dad's to start the clean up process.  That won't be easy.  But it's not supposed to be easy.  It is simply part of this process.

This is a whole new grieving process.  I am officially an adult orphan.  That's a fascinating place to be in the world.  I feel too young to be without parents.  Even though my dad and I had switched roles over the last several years, he was still my dad.  In fact, an interesting anecdote about that.  Dad had been lingering for two weeks.  Everyone had come to say good-bye.  We had all told him it was okay to go.  I told him I was going to be okay.  But nothing seemed to be setting him free.  There were times we talked and times we were quiet.  Times we touched him and times we didn't.  We did it all.  And then on Friday night, a good friend of mine said to Olly, "Have you told him you're going to take care of Kelli?"  It still makes me cry just thinking of that moment.  On Saturday, I went home for a bit to shower and see my kids.  And Olly had a heart-to-heart with my dad.  He promised him he'd take care of me.  I returned around 5:30, went in and said Hi to dad and then Olly and I settled in for the evening.  I had just poured a glass of wine when I "felt" something.  I turned and walked into dad's room and he wasn't breathing and was pale, but still completely warm.  Of course, we'll never know if he would have died then anyway, but we all felt dad was needing something to release him from his body.  And although I had been his caregiver for the last several years, he was , and always would be, my dad.  Maybe he needed to know someone else was going to take care of his little girl.  I don't know.  

What I know is that my dad is gone.  He and I went through a lot together the last six years.  I talked to him almost every single day.  I will miss that.  I still find myself picking up the phone to call him around 7pm every night.  It will take a while to break that habit.  I've done grief before, but every journey is a new and unique one.  I know and honor that.

I blogged my way through my mom's dying.  This time I intend to blog through grieving both for myself and so people can see it in action.  We don't talk about it enough.  I need to, both personally and professionally.  I hope you'll bear witness to this journey and that somehow it might help when you have to walk your own.

For now, it's time to get showered and get on with Day 1 of this new journey.  I admit, I'm both scared of it and intrigued by where it will take me.  

The Beginning of The End

It's 11:59pm on Monday, October 19th when I am beginning this blog.  Tonight I have begun my vigil at my dad's bedside.  I intend to remain here until he dies.  Or until I need a shower...whichever comes first...but if it's just a shower...I'll be back.  :)  It's good to still have a sense of humor.

I'm tired.  Physically and emotionally, so bear with me.  I don't know how much sense this will all make.

My dad has been talking to people I can't see for the past couple of hours.  Some are very animated conversations.  In some moments, I can just let it be...knowing it's a normal part of the dying process. At other times, it simply breaks my heart and I have to remove myself to another room.

When my mom was dying, I had no idea what was happening.  Now, I think I know too much.  And it's odd to have so much information, but then to have the emotions take over.  I could help anyone else through this process with no problem.  But this is my dad.  MY dad.  And I sit here in his room and I look around at furniture that came from my parent's home when we moved dad here to his assisted living community 2 1/2 years ago.  I also see the wheelchair and the sponges for his mouth to keep it moist and the pads for his bed and so many other signs that simply break my heart.

This is the end.  I would expect dad to die within the next several days.  Every time it gets quiet, I check to see if he's breathing.  Just like I did with my babies when they were little.  

I turned down the lights and turned on some electric candles to quiet it down in here.  The bright lights have been getting to me.  

Who am I kidding...it's all getting to me.  

I want to talk to these people my dad is talking to and just say, "Take him, dammit!"  Good lord, how much longer does he have to go through this?  But maybe he's not going through anything.  Maybe it's just me.  And in that case, I just have to be patient and let things happen as they are supposed to.  Just as in birth.  Death takes its own sweet time.  

I left my office tonight after clearing my calendar for the rest of the week.  And it was very clear to me that the next time I go to work, my world will have changed.  I will be an adult orphan. My dad will be gone from this earth.  That's life changing stuff.  

Gosh, I am just so tired.

I hear my dad say, "Is it time to go?" "I see that." "What direction?" and I know that he's finding his way.  I sit and just listen.  I hold space.  I allow things to play out as they are meant to.  No matter how it makes me feel or how much my heart breaks.  This is my job right now.  My role.  Be here.  Hold space.  Love him.  

Let.Him.Go.

I have to let him go.  I have to release him.  I am his anchor to this world.  And I have to pull anchor and set him free.  I have been asking for him to hang on until I got here.  I was so scared he was going to die while I was running my workshop all weekend.  I didn't want to admit it, but I was.  But now, here I am.  It's time I let him go.

Surrender.

Release.

Let Go.

I'm not good at any of that.  But I need to do it all right now.  

It's 12:24am on October 20th as I'm bringing this to a close because my brain is too tired to go on.  I just got off the phone with the hospice nurse who was lovely and chatted with me and told me she was going to get dad something asap to make him more comfortable.  She also said that he sounds like he's "actively transitioning".  Today could be the day my dad dies.  Or tomorrow.  Or the next day.  But it will be soon.  And it will break my heart.  And I will grieve and mourn.  And I will keep putting one foot in front of the other.  And I will learn and grow and keep moving forward.  I will feel what I need to feel.  And I will heal at some point.  And death and I will continue our journey together.  Walking parallel roads...until one day they will cross again.

A Road Once Traveled Before

I blogged the entire seven months from my mom's cancer diagnosis to her death.  I blogged so much, I actually printed it all up and turned it into a 450 page book for me to keep it all.  I look back on all of that and can remember the pain and now can see all the growth.  It was cathartic for me while blogging and is still cathartic for me to read it today.  I won't have 450 pages worth of blogging for my dad.  For all I know, this may be the only blog about my dad dying.  I don't know.  All I know is that tonight I need to get some stuff out of my head.  And this is the way that comes naturally for me to do that.

My dad is dying.  

It needs to be said.  Until today, I think I had a sliver of hope that I was wrong. But today, I feel strongly that he is dying.  

It's odd.  With my mom I had seven months to come to terms with her death.  I won't get that with my dad.  Of course, Parkinson's has taken so much from him, but I could still sit with him and chat and we could laugh and tell stories.  But he's gone now.  I mean, he's physically still there, but looking into his eyes tells me he is gone.  And I miss him already.  

Just two weeks ago, he was playing bingo and socializing.  And then it all changed.  I got a call on a Saturday saying he'd had a big fall and he wasn't acting normally.  There was concern over a brain bleed.  So, I took him to the ER.  He was diagnosed as being in almost full renal failure.  The ER doc's exact words (after several hours and tests in the ER) were, "Well, your dad is in almost full renal failure.  Does he have a DNR?"  ~ Sigh ~

Dad stayed in the hospital for three days.  He's generally not very lucid in the hospital and this was no different.  His kidneys cleared up and he was released.  My hope was that getting him home would clear him up.  Turns out that wasn't to be the case.  He has steadily declined since.  Hospice took over this past Monday.  Hospice.  How I love them.  And how I hate that they're in my life again.  

The last two weeks are what I call a very special kind of hell that you can only understand if you've been here.  The hell where one day your loved one seems like they may be improving and you get hope and then the next day is followed by a terrible day.  And the terrible days become more common.  You lose hope, you gain hope, you lose it again, you gain it and then you lose it.  Over and over.  I'm not equipped for this.  I catch my heart beating out of my chest at times.  My arms go numb.  Panic creeps up.  Am I doing enough?  Am I doing the right things?  Could I do more? Oh my gosh, my dad is dying.  I can't breathe.  And around and around and around I go.  I can't digest food.  My stomach makes incredibly loud noises as though something is alive in there.  It's angry.  My adrenals are clearly in trouble and affecting every other part of me.  I sleep, but I wake up tired every day, so it's clearly not restful sleep.  Every day is another day of wondering and waiting and worrying.  Thank goodness for work that I love that provides me with a distraction now and then.  I'm much better at helping others than helping myself (I'm a work in progress...).

I really believed that losing my dad would be easier than losing my mom.  I get death now.  I didn't understand it when my mom was dying.  But it anointed me then.  I took up its cause.  I carry its torch.  I am friends with death.  Or so I thought.  I kind of feel my friend stabbed me in the back when I wasn't looking.  I feel unprepared, confused and lost.  I hurt in a way I didn't know I could hurt.  It occurred to me that when my mom was dying, I had my dad there.  He took care of mom and I took care of him (well, I took care of mom too, but mostly, I really took care of dad).  But I don't have that now.  There is no other parent to make the decisions.  It's me.  And the decisions are big.  I know what my dad wanted.  But it's still hard to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done.  

I'm going to be an orphan.

Sure, I'm 46.  Sure, I've been my dad's caregiver for the past several years and we didn't have the same parent/child relationship.  But he's still my dad.  And he's still here.  And soon, he won't be.  And I'll be living in a world without parents.  Of course, I knew that this would happen one day.  But suddenly I feel like I'm 10 and it's dark and I'm scared.  And I want my parents to protect me.  But they can't anymore.  

Last November, at the Thanksgiving dinner table, dad looked at me and said, "I want Michael to write my eulogy so I can hear it."  Gulp.  Okay.  So, I texted Michael to let him know.  Let's just say he wasn't all that excited about the prospect.  But he's been working on that eulogy for the past year.  And this week he finished it.  And yesterday, I told dad it was done and his eyes lit up for the first time in a long time and he said, "He did?" After clearing it with Michael, I asked him if he wanted to hear it.  And he said he did.  So I read dad his eulogy.  Few people get to hear their own eulogy.  It was the most emotional, incredible experience I may have ever had in my life.  And something I will never, ever forget as long as I live.  I couldn't get through it without tears, but by the end, the tears were flowing freely by my dad and his caregiver too.  All dad could say was "Thank you.  Thank you."  It was a gift from my brother that I was able to deliver to my dad.  You'll all have to come to the memorial service to hear it yourselves. It's an incredible tribute to an amazing man.

Today, I wrote a letter to all his caregivers explaining that it's time we all let dad do what he needs to do.  We don't need to force him to eat or be up or do anything he doesn't want to do really.  Be merciful.  Let him die well.  Give him a good death.  And it felt good to write it.  To really stand up for my dad and what he wants.  Of course, we all want him to live.  But we have no power over that and it is clear his body is done.  And the one thing I DO know... we can't stop this.  We can't fight it.  We have to surrender.  

Surrender.  There it is again.  

It's what life is all about, isn't it?  Surrendering to what is.  

His caregivers needed me to say it.  I'm the daughter.  I have to make that call.  So, I did it.  

This is HARD.  HARD <----- Just like that.  In all caps.  At the same time, I have been given a unique opportunity to practice what I preach.  I'm the gerontologist...the grief counselor...the death midwife.  This is my world.  And I know ALL the stuff.  And I know I MUST take care of myself.  So, I am doing that to the best of my ability.  But I also know I MUST speak.  This is my passion.  We have to speak about death.  We can't experience it in silence.  So I'm speaking.  Because I am all the things above.  But in this instance, I am a daughter who is losing her father.  The end.  The hospice nurse told me I have to forget all I know and just be the daughter.  She's right.  But I will speak.  I won't be silent.  I will share my pain.  Because it's real.  It's raw.  It's mine.  But I am far from the only one to grieve.  And I absolutely believe we have to share our pain to help others.  So others know that this kind of pain is survivable.  Because I know it is.  But I have to walk it...again.  I have to take step-by-step over those burning hot coals.  Just like I did with my mom.  

And I will.  I will take one step at a time.  I will feel the grief.  I will feel the loss.  I will feel the pain.  As much as I don't want to.  

Because death anointed me.  It is always with me.  And as much as I feel somewhat betrayed right now, I also know that death's hand is on my shoulder in an odd sort of comfort.  It believes in me.  It knows I can do this.  It knows I have lessons to learn and lessons to teach.  

So, another fall arrives.  The leaves turn.  The days shorten.  And I am losing another parent.  Fall will turn to winter and the days may be dark.  But spring always arrives.  The sun always comes out again.  And life goes on.  It will be different.  It will be odd to live in a parent-less world.  But I will survive.  I will continue to bloom.

For now...I visit with my dad, I work, I spend time with my children and my husband, I reach out and experience the amazing support of my friends and family, I speak, I breathe, I feel, I hurt, I cry, I live.  

One day...one moment...at a time.