The End. And the Beginning....

It was bound to happen, and it did. My father, Gene, died this April at the age of 90. It was, as death goes, not as bad as it could have been, and it happened at the right time: in his own home, with family at his side and aware of the love surrounding him. I had returned from an overseas trip, knowing before I left that he was in decline and would certainly be referred to hospice by the time I returned...

My one hope--not quite a gamble--was that he would manage to hold on while I was away; he did, and for the last 3 weeks of his life I was able to be there, helping to ease his transition. Spending nights and a number of days at the house was rewarding, challenging--life-changing. He knew what was happening, even without a clear diagnosis, despite his moments of confusion--and he was ready. When I told him that the doctor was running out of options to help, he looked at me directly and said, "I want no options."

Essentially, he stopped eating, as swallowing had become increasingly difficult. He requested, for the final weeks, sips of cranberry juice, until even that become too much. As he diminished physically and spent most days sleeping, or at least appearing to sleep, he was nonetheless present--smiled when he opened his eyes and saw me there, said "I love you" frequently, and allowed himself to be cared for, despite the loss of dignity he must have felt. We tried to make sure he was comfortable, and from all appearances, we succeeded.

I visited twice on the day before he passed, knowing that time was running out. The first time, he seemed to have more energy--smiling and answering basic questions. I knew about this "burst of energy" people frequently exhibit before the end, and sure enough when I visited again that night, he was no longer responsive, although he knew I was there...I placed my hand on his and he moved his other hand on top of mine. When I left, I knew that we would not see each other again. Instead of "good night," or "I'll see you tomorrow" I said, "Now I have to say goodbye. I love you." I wiped a tear from his cheek, kissed him on the forehead and left.

Next morning, he was gone--quietly, peacefully, without any sign of struggle or discomfort. It was, as I said, not as bad as it could have been, though it has been hard for me--the sense of finality and irreparable loss--the departure of the last person on this planet who loved me unconditionally, who knew the story of my life from its very beginning.

So who am I now? Not a caregiver, no longer angry...trying to gather the memories and incorporate them into my life as I go on without him, keeping him alive in me. It is both an ending and a beginning.

One day after my father died, I found something I'd been searching for repeatedly over the decades--a box of letters he'd written to his parents while he was in Europe during World War II.  I'd assumed they had been thrown out in one of their moves, but by pure chance, I located them in a box labeled "scripts." Some 200 letters, most from overseas and some from his student years at Berkeley, along with his English 1-A essays. A glimpse not only of history, with detailed accounts of the people and places he encountered during those momentous, formative years. More than stories of the past, but a view of who he was, and how he was shaped by events and who he would eventually become. Stories, reflections, hopes, plans: my father before fatherhood, the student yet to become a professor.

My next project awaits....a new blog written largely by my father, based on his letters. Thank you for sharing this part of my journey, and stay tuned.

After a long hiatus...more of the same

If the last year and a half had been worth writing about...

and parts of it may have been, but I simply didn't bother. There were a few noteworthy events, in any case. To wit:

• My father turned 90 last June, and gave a short speech of thanks for all the gifts and attention 
• A caregiver continues to help twice per week, and I'm visiting almost every Sunday 
• Stepmother muddles on, a bit more confused and every bit as self-absorbed

Of course, behind the headlines there are a number of stories, but my focus for now is on what I've been doing to give my dad as much pleasure and meaning in his final years as I can. I could always do more, and may yet do so, but my various exploits included a visit to the cemetery where his mother lies, and which nobody in the family had visited in at least 60 years. 

My grandmother, sadly, died young, years before I was born. Yet to this day, family members who knew her speak of her gentle, loving presence. Some even cry, remembering her difficult years of illness, mourning her early death. After a short while of online searching, I found out which cemetery she was in. As my spouse and I (oh, yes--forgot to mention we got married in 2013) were planning a trip to New York, I asked my dad if he would like me to visit and place some flowers on the grave. Somewhat to my surprise, he said, "Yes, I would appreciate that." So we went. Placed flowers. Took pictures--which my father studied intently when I returned, though showing no emotion at the time.

But he has mentioned my visit to his mother's grave, several times, in fact, at one point telling me that it "was very feeling." The ability to find the exact words he wants sometimes eludes him, but there's no question as to what he meant.

I've made the simple act of bringing him something to eat is less a chore and more an exercise in imagination. He's spoken often of his grandmother's stuffed cabbage, which he enjoyed so much as a child--and certainly hadn't tasted for decades. Jeannie wouldn't dream of making such a complicated dish, and even finding it in the frozen food section proved impossible. So I found a recipe, and made it. He pronounced it "a perfect meal" and "great," words which made the small thing I did seem much bigger. 

As we all reach that stage, it truly is the "small things" that matter most. I'm happy, so filled with joy that I've been able to do those things for my father--and hope to do a few more.