24/12/2019
Many of you know that I have been working on a podcast for what seems like forever. Excited to share insights and conversations with people I know who are doing both amazing and revolutionary things. I was just about to launch when my Dad was hospitalized for several weeks and died on September 23, 2019. It rocked my world and threw my podcast onto the back burner. I’m not 100% ready to launch the website and everything yet. It has been on my heart to share this podcast even though the rest isn’t finished. I am not the only one grieving this holiday. Maybe other people will find peace in my conversation with Medium & Psychic Kim Moore like I did. Looking forward to sharing another “first” podcast episode soon.
https://anchor.fm/momsdonttalklikethat
Grief, Grace and Gratitude
It was close to five years ago when I happened to be in town for one of my Dad’s doctor appointments. His General Practioner, gave me the “look” about his condition. “You know he has copd AND emphysema” she said, as if I hadn’t been in town for appointments with his heart doctor, his kidney doctor and the other specialists who monitored his health. That I hadn’t received a phone call from my Grandfather 30 years prior to tell me about my Dad’s first heart attack. That I hadn’t sat with him in the ICU when he had surgery for pleurisy or in the waiting room while he had his triple bypass. Yes, I was aware that every day with my Dad was bonus. (I found it funny though when she closed her office a couple years later and he had to find a new doctor.)
There was something different about his last trip to the hospital. His admissions had become more frequent over the past couple years. His wife was under strict orders not to tell us kids. My Dad didn’t want us to see him like that. In his mind, he was still a macho firefighter. He would talk about the “pussies” who would wear protective gear back in the day (while wearing an oxygen mask)
Living two states away and working abnormal hours, information wasn’t easy to come by. When I got a text from my sister that my Dad was moved to ICU, I felt like I needed to get there and see what was going on in person. When I arrived at midnight, his wife, who was exhausted from (not) sleeping at the hospital for days, was trying to figure out why I wasn’t getting the group text updates she was sending. She started a whole new thread and sent a test text, that she was surprised people responded to. Later after she went home, my Dad said, “When everyone got that text at midnight, they probably thought I died.” As I stumbled over how to respond, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “But you know that’s coming, right?”
I did. When I told him I was ok with it, I didn’t know I was lying. I asked what he wanted us to do. He said he wanted to be cremated and buried at the Veterans Cemetary in Boulder City, and that his wife could be buried with him later, but it would cost $400 since she wasn’t a veteran. My Dad was always thinking about the cost of things. Which was ironic considering the amount of time (and money) that man spent in casinos. I started to tear up when I told him that I didn’t know any days of my life without him. The direct part of our conversation was over. My Dad could stand a lot of pain, but not watching his kids cry.
Exactly one month after that conversation, my Dad died. I am grateful that I was able to spend my Dad’s last two nights on earth with him. He wasn’t able to hold a conversation by then, but he could listen, sometimes laugh, and every once in a while, bust out with a sentence or two.
If I was going to write the way things ended, there’s not much I would change. Of course if I could take away his pain, that would be first. I would have recorded some of his stories, lectures #1-427 and as many corny Dad jokes as he could tell (and he could tell a lot!) I would have valued our time together even more than I did, because it’s true what they say about not knowing how much someone means to you until they’re gone.
My friends who had lost a parent, tried to tell me, they really did. I thought I was prepared. Despite my sometimes annoying, super level of positivity, I knew that my Dad was not going home from the hospital. I said it out loud, even to family members who weren’t ready to hear it. What I wasn’t prepared for is how my heart would shatter when he actually died.
I was not in the room when my Dad took his last breath. I know he didn’t want us to see that. His closest people, his wife and his twin were by his side. I had left the hospital about an hour before, just enough time to drive across town and order food. His wife called in tears to say that he was dying NOW. As my friends hurried to grab the check, I told them not to rush, that he would be gone before I got back to the hospital. Sure enough, a call from my brother just as I got in the car confirmed what I already knew.
I had no desire to be in the room with my Dad’s body, while his wife wouldn’t let go of his hand. I can only imagine what my Aunt felt when the heartbeat that was so close to her since conception stopped. Each of us trying to surf a sunami of emotions with no experience. Doing my best to stay present and feel whatever feeling showed up in each moment. Careful not to analyze my feelings away, while being conscious of the people around me who both wanted support and to give it.
I only wanted my closest friends around. I didn’t want to deal with a bunch of attention. In that moment, grief for me was private. There was no reason to go back home in the 9 days between my Dad’s death and his service. There was way too much time without anything to do. I didn’t have the ability to focus for any real length of time, not even to watch a tv show. I spent time with my closest friends, I spent time alone.
When a person I had been dating, who I had allowed myself to depend on emotionally, came to see me and said that, “I was different” that he wanted me to go home so I could “get back to normal” I was stunned. My Dad had died FOUR days ago and he wants me to “Get back to normal”?!?!?! On the one hand, he still has both of his parents, so I can almost give him a pass. I’m sure that I have said some seriously insensitive bu****it to my friends when they were grieving too. Like him, I didn’t know.
I didn’t know I would feel this weird combination of happy and sad. That it was possible to be so grateful that my Dad was out of pain while at the same time wishing for just one more conversation, one more hug, one more hour of watching STUPID Judge Judy or NCIS whatever city with him. That I would feel like the pilot light went out on the furnace that fuels my life force. That I would feel just a fraction of my normal level of happiness. That I could be laughing remembering some corny Dad joke one minute and be in tears thinking that I might forget the way he smelled the next. That I had GROSSLY underestimated how sad I could be.
Like standing on a fault line when an earthquake hits, losing a parent shakes your foundation. While you will regain your footing in time, there will always be a crack in the landscape of your life. It’s been 53 days and I am not yet, “Back to normal” whatever that is. I have some normal-ish days where I do some normal type things, but the smile that I got from my Dad doesn’t happen as often as it used to. Giving myself grace and space until it comes back. Loving the people who understand and understanding to the people who don’t. Grateful for every open ear, arms and heart. No one wants to join the dead parent club, but most of us will get membership cards eventually.
