Just Practicing

Within a two month period I got married, my father died, I walked away from my career in education and moved across the country. In the months that followed, my mother became ill and was hospitalized twice, her sister was injured in an automobile accident, and her brother died.

I’d like to think that I have adapted to my new lifestyle and surroundings, but I realize I may be a wee bit delusional. Sometimes I’m fairly certain that I can feel the tilt and the turning of the planet, and, more often than not, I find myself almost holding my breath as I wait for the next crisis. I tell myself, live your life, the only constant is change, and I remind myself to breathe and be fully in the present. Sometimes it works.

While my sisters and I were grappling with the reality that our father was dying, we were amazed with all of the life lessons unfolding before us. Death has a way of making us pay attention, leading us to re-examine our lives and our connection with others.

The priest asked my sisters and me to each write an essay about our father. We were exhausted; we were pressed for time with a zillion other details to take care of; and we had been processing our lives and Dad’s life as we participated in a deathbed watch. I felt numb; I had nothing left to say. I was trying to focus on his spirit being free, that his body had become a burden to him and his soul was now at peace.

I turned in no essay and felt a modest amount of guilt. (The irony here is that I taught composition and literature for fifteen years, and I have been working on this article, off and on, for months.) My two sisters completed the assignment but the priest didn’t use any of this content; either the task was for our own good or he decided not to eulogize our father because I failed to comply with his demands.

My sisters developed the core of the service, with input from my mother and me. My new husband helped me select pictures from the photo albums my mother had compiled over the years. I wanted him to see the man my father had been; I needed to remember the man my father had been. We assembled the photos, a modified chronicle of Dad’s life, and displayed them at the back of the church where the wake was held.

My father had been living in a long-term care facility for over ten months when his condition began to deteriorate. He slipped into an end-stage coma and our family pulled together, finding ways to cope. One of the most helpful tools was the soothing music we played—our family has always loved music.

We sang, we cried, we prayed, we told stories, we laughed.

“Remember that time we were going to a wedding and Mom was changing her dress in the car, and we drove through a town with her wearing only her slip and a nervous smile?”

“Remember the time Dad was ushering in church and he hooked a lady’s hairnet along the way and it was dangling from the collection basket?”

“Remember the time that Mom and Dad went to a Halloween party dressed as members of the rock group KISS, and nobody knew who they were until they heard Dad laugh?”

My father had this wonderful, genuine, hearty laugh. He laughed with his entire body, rocking forward on his feet, his shoulders shaking. I haven’t heard that laugh in so long and I miss it so much.

Over the years, we had lost my father by inches. A neurological disorder, aided or caused by TIAs (transient ischemic attacks, a form of slight and generally progressive stroke), slowly robbed us of the man we had known. Various conditions--Cerebral Ataxia, E-Coli, fluid on the brain--sometimes forced a health crisis. Each brush with death created an opportunity for me to prepare myself psychologically for the likelihood of his passing, even though my rational mind knew the random nature of fate and death.

The second time he stayed in a long-term care facility, having been transferred from the hospital, I waited with him for someone to help him into bed (the tangle of tubes and cords exceeded my navigational capabilities). As we waited and I mentally reflected on the possible outcomes, I heard his voice in my head: “Don’t bury me ’til I’m dead.” If he had said it aloud, it might have been said jokingly, or since he was so ill and so tired, it may have been said with a trace of bitterness. But the voice in my head had been so matter of fact that it struck me with a force that I have not forgotten.

We live until we die. He was facing a lot of challenges, but he was facing them. To my surprise, he recovered and returned home.

We live until we die. We can’t always choose the quality of life. I helped Dad in and out of chairs, beds, showers, cars. Occasionally I tended to his personal needs. What I did was a mere fraction of the loving care he received from my mother, his wife of fifty-one years.

Dad suffered numerous indignities, but, whenever he could, he dealt with these challenges with humor. One time, as he was trying to hold himself upright in the shower, he said, “You know, they say the first one hundred years are the hardest.”

Much as he loved to have his family around, he did not care to be fussed over. A sudden sneeze prompted my sister’s cautious inquiry, “Did you sneeze?” His dry reply: “Just practicing.” No need to quarantine the room at this time, pack up your disinfectant spray and your tissues, I’m okay.

During his final days we had to accept that even though his passing felt near, we couldn’t predict when it would happen, or what would happen. I had long thought that I would be present when my father died. Both of my sisters have medical backgrounds; both surely knew more than I about how to keep Dad comfortable.

A month before his death, I attended a one day seminar on Reiki, an ancient Japanese form of healing. One of my sisters had completed some in-depth training and I thought I would take advantage of an opportunity to educate myself.

Basically, the person administering the Reiki serves as a conduit for the universal life force. I know this sounds a little “woo-woo” to some, but each of us is a source of energy, and we can focus our attention to help others. This can be done in a neutral way, or in a spiritual, prayer-like manner. Before I left the seminar I specifically asked about hand placements that would promote comfort and relaxation. As a result of this, much of the time I was with Dad one of my hands rested lightly on his shoulder.

When Dad was in a coma we administered ongoing Reiki treatments. His enlarged heart was working so hard we could see it leaping against his chest. His breathing often seemed more like panting. Time and time again we positioned our hands and he relaxed. My hands were hot from the activity. Whenever anyone expresses his or her doubt in complementary medicine, I picture the ease we brought to my father.

Some friends and family members have expressed the wish that they too could have been present when a loved one passed away. I always say what I believe, sometimes they need us to be there and sometimes they need us to be somewhere else. One of my sisters had worked with Hospice, and for years I had heard her express the belief and observation that people die as they had lived.

I expected my father’s death to be peaceful, that he would pass from a sleep state to the next world. I thought he would welcome death; that he had been ready for some time, but I was amazed at his life force. We attempted to joke that now that we were all together he didn’t want to miss out on the party. Even though he was a deeply religious man, he also had been our champion and protector, and I think it was difficult for him to let go.

We did our best to keep him comfortable, but it was anguish watching and hearing him. Several times we thought, ‘this is it,’ but no. We rearranged our lives to stay there longer, and each time we rotated bedside shifts we wondered if he would still be alive when we returned. He was able to wait until we were all present; we got to say a final goodbye. He didn’t speak, but he acknowledged each of us, looking us straight in the eyes.

It was a very spiritual time for us, and my father seemed to find the release he needed when we verbally promised to look out for each other, to take care of Mom, and then my sister encouraged him to go toward the light, and he let go. It was over; his spirit was gone. We stayed with the body, the shell, for awhile; it is so hard to let go. But we also felt that family and friends were meeting him on the other side. He was moving on, and we managed to do so also.

His funeral was a blur for me. People were expressing their condolences and congratulating me on my marriage, a strange juxtaposition but a source of hope and joy amidst the pain and loss.

In the months after his death I felt a longing for some tangible item that would remind me of him. I had a few things that had belonged to him, but looking at them only saddened me. I knew that what I was missing was the solid reassurance of his physical presence.

I believe that our loved ones who have experienced physical death are much closer to us than we realize, so I still talk to him, and I play the piano for him and sing.

I am grateful that this man was my father. I am grateful for the time he spent with me and the way he shaped my life. I am also grateful for all of the wonderful friends and family and caregivers who touched our lives in such an indelible way because of their connection to my father.

The following summer my sister and I paid our respects during a visit to the area. Dad had often taken us to the family gravesite during our childhood, a roots and wings moment, remembering and honoring those who had come before us. We hadn’t buried a family member in the old family lot in over thirty years so the new headstone stood out, marking the change.

As we began to leave, a yellow butterfly appeared and flew around us and around us, stopping us with its erratic flight pattern. It felt like we were receiving a butterfly hug, a ‘hello and don’t go, not yet.’ We lingered, smiling through our tears, recalling the Mills Brothers song on one of Dad’s records, “Poor Butterfly” (an allusion to Puccini’s opera, MADAME BUTTERFLY).

Change is inevitable and unavoidable. There are no exceptions. But our ability to adapt and cope may be our saving grace.

It’s taking some practice, but I’m trying to savor the little moments in life, the simple things that brighten my soul and lift my spirit. Maybe, in turn, my life will touch other lives in a positive manner.

It seems a fitting legacy for my dad.

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