The loss of a parent is a terrible thing
Once again, Lisa, Rowan, I am so, so sorry for you.
Lisa's father died Wednesday; Rowan's mother this morning.
There is something truly hollowing about the loss of a parent. A friend of mine, after my father died, asked how he could prepare when he faced the tragedy. I told him, "You can't. You can take all kinds of precautions, but all sorts of legal matters in order, but until you face the reality you simply have no notion how you will react." There are few times in my life that I have, sadly, spoken truer words.
My father is dead these ten long years. I still think of him, usually positively, but sometimes just missing him ferociously. It took him a long time and a short time to die. He was suffering from lung cancer brought one by asbestos, as he had worked in the engine rooms of naval vessels in WWII. As his physician had said, if it wasn't for his lungs he figured Dad would have lived to be at least 85, probably closer to 90. As it was he died at 71. But the odd thing was that the cancer didn't get him; he drowned. What was a man with half a functioning lung doing swimming? Well, I have my own guesses.
By the time I arrived at his hospital bed in Florida, of all places, he was already mostly gone. The three of us (Alex, Sarah, myself), and the awful appendage that was my Dad's not-quite-girlfriend Avril, discussed matters, but in the end I went by his living will -- no heroic measures. The doctor was relieved that I took that line because my father's brain activity had already seemingly ceased. He was on a heavy respirator unit; the doctor said that once they took Dad off of that he would be dead within a matter of hours.
So we waited.
For six days.
When he finally died, very early in the morning when no one was watching (I think Dad just wanted to go privately), we were all asleep in a hotel about 5 minutes from the hospital. We got the call and went over. He was so still. No more big laugh. No more cookies. No more stealing the checks away from us. No more rooting for Stanford to spite my Mom during The Big Game. And I had to touch him to knew it was true; he was so cold. And I wept, I wept hard and long, and felt a little relieved and a little guilty, but mainly I was missing the man I loved so, so dearly.
Nothing could have prepared me for that moment.
So, my angels, two of the four I love so dearly and deeply, I know something of your pain, your loss, but not entirely; we have led different lives with different parents. Please know that I care for you, will continue to care for you, and will do all in my power to help you through this time. Know that offrendas will be placed this year for yours that have passed. And know that the hellish pain and loss does subside, but it will take time.
Peace & love.
Lisa's father died Wednesday; Rowan's mother this morning.
There is something truly hollowing about the loss of a parent. A friend of mine, after my father died, asked how he could prepare when he faced the tragedy. I told him, "You can't. You can take all kinds of precautions, but all sorts of legal matters in order, but until you face the reality you simply have no notion how you will react." There are few times in my life that I have, sadly, spoken truer words.
My father is dead these ten long years. I still think of him, usually positively, but sometimes just missing him ferociously. It took him a long time and a short time to die. He was suffering from lung cancer brought one by asbestos, as he had worked in the engine rooms of naval vessels in WWII. As his physician had said, if it wasn't for his lungs he figured Dad would have lived to be at least 85, probably closer to 90. As it was he died at 71. But the odd thing was that the cancer didn't get him; he drowned. What was a man with half a functioning lung doing swimming? Well, I have my own guesses.
By the time I arrived at his hospital bed in Florida, of all places, he was already mostly gone. The three of us (Alex, Sarah, myself), and the awful appendage that was my Dad's not-quite-girlfriend Avril, discussed matters, but in the end I went by his living will -- no heroic measures. The doctor was relieved that I took that line because my father's brain activity had already seemingly ceased. He was on a heavy respirator unit; the doctor said that once they took Dad off of that he would be dead within a matter of hours.
So we waited.
For six days.
When he finally died, very early in the morning when no one was watching (I think Dad just wanted to go privately), we were all asleep in a hotel about 5 minutes from the hospital. We got the call and went over. He was so still. No more big laugh. No more cookies. No more stealing the checks away from us. No more rooting for Stanford to spite my Mom during The Big Game. And I had to touch him to knew it was true; he was so cold. And I wept, I wept hard and long, and felt a little relieved and a little guilty, but mainly I was missing the man I loved so, so dearly.
Nothing could have prepared me for that moment.
So, my angels, two of the four I love so dearly and deeply, I know something of your pain, your loss, but not entirely; we have led different lives with different parents. Please know that I care for you, will continue to care for you, and will do all in my power to help you through this time. Know that offrendas will be placed this year for yours that have passed. And know that the hellish pain and loss does subside, but it will take time.
Peace & love.