My father died last week. He had been battling cancer off and on for the last several years. His decline in recent months had been evident, so his passing was no surprise to anyone. Still, it’s one of those things you just can’t fully prepare for.
When my mother called to tell me he had been placed in hospice care, I wasted no time in going to see him. Since he’s been experiencing bouts of dementia for years, time with him is unpredictable. Last Thanksgiving he spent the entire afternoon with me, but never figured out who I was. It turned out that day he was mentally locked around 1970, when his daughter was young, thin and redheaded. He just couldn’t reconcile that image with the fat old gray-haired woman across the table from him.
I got lucky, though. On that last visit, we all got to experience one of those times when the failing person has a final rally. For the first three days I was there, he got out of bed, sat in his chair and visited with family and friends, laughed a lot, remained lucid and in the present, and got to enjoy some of his favorite foods. I don’t know whether or not my visit was the catalyst for his last fully present hours, but many of us got the benefit of them and I am deeply grateful for that.
His memorial service was mid-morning on a Friday, and his church prepared a buffet lunch afterward for relatives only. We seated more than 60 people at lunch, and there was at least as much family absent as present. Our clan left a big footprint, and many of them loved him dearly. There were certainly tears shed at his service, but mostly there was a lot of laughter. That’s just what he wanted, and it’s just what he got.
Why is it that the most profound moments of reality in life seem so surreal?
I’m back home now and things are getting back to what is blithely called the new normal. My life will only change in small ways, but my mother’s changes will be more extensive. She has 63 years of habits to break, adapt or re-learn. That can’t help but reverberate in my life, too.
In the meantime, my dog is sticking very close to me. He worries now every time I leave, and I reassure him it will be me—not the dog-sitter—who comes back in the door. This was his first experience with extended maternal absence, so he has also been thrust into a new normal. If some extra hugs and strokes help him weather the shock, I’m okay with that. There’s nothing wrong with needing a little reassurance from time to time.