Reflecting on Death and Dying
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My dad’s memorial service was held one year ago on this day. His and my mom’s ashes were then buried together in the cemetery where four previous generations of his family are interred. I felt immense relief at the end of the day one year ago, in completing the last step of holding my dad and honoring him as best I could during the six years we cared for and advocated for him. I imagined that I’d feel more myself at the end of the day one year ago, more like the sense of my self had come back in.
Yet, as I sit here today, I can share that I am somewhat more lost than ever. I became an empty nester at about the same time as I became an orphan. My life had been dedicated to parenting, and then to caregiving. So, now passed the crossroads of these milestones, I now have the luxury of reflecting and of finding balance.
I don’t know if I’ll come back from caregiving with the same lightness I once carried. I seek to see the world with freshness again, yet I am bone weary. I wish my parents had the courage to communicate with each other and with me about their declining health and their needs as they got older. Instead, they slammed phones and doors and avoided me, shutting out any possibility of conversing about what was inevitable. That day finally arrived when my mom suddenly passed, and it all came crashing down on my shoulders. I wish I had been prepared. I wish I had been more resilient. Most of all I wish I missed my mom and dad now. I don’t, especially her. This makes me sad, yet I am so much more relieved they are both free from their suffering; her from her demons and him from his pain.
Caregiving shattered me and it crushed me. I’m not sure how else to put it. We moved through each day working off sheer will and instinct. Outside of the high demands of his physical needs, his mind was both beautiful and complicated. He was lost when my mom died: she controlled every part of his life. Thankfully she went first. I realized immediately that I could be there for my dad. If he had passed first, there is no way in hell I could have cared for her. Sitting with sixteen months between his passing and where I am today, I know for sure now there is absolutely no way I’d go back and take care of my dad again if I had the choice.
Today I invite my heart to break open so I can peel back more layers of our complicated family dynamics. Today I have time to reflect. Today I can share too that too many years of holding complications internally does not fare well for our physical health in the long run. Life is complicated. Family dynamics are complicated. I am willing to admit that I am complicated.
Here’s to healing and releasing, opening and allowing softness back into our bodies, our lives, and especially our hearts as we all make our way forward. Here’s to quieting the multitude of distractions so the mind can fully clear.
I want to recognize those in my tribe who have stayed close, especially my husband. I have not been myself for a very long time. It is truly beautiful to see who has remained with me, holding my hand and heart tenderly in the stadium of life after a big game, after the sun has set, and the crew has turned off all the lights. From this place of supported darkness, we can truly see the stars and the moon shine.
Someday, I hope to help others feel more prepared if they find themselves in the same position. Death and the dying process are not the worst of what I faced: they have been the most magical aspects of this entire experience.
(This is the last image taken of my dad and I holding hands. He passed a few hours after this was taken.)
Until next time I offer these words of wisdom for better or for worse. Please take them with a grain of salt for we each live our own individual truths. Our mission while we are here is to understand, accept, and celebrate that one very simple, but incredibly significant fact. For all this, I am grateful.
