Updated: Oct. 12, 2020
Originally Published: Oct. 18, 2019
Just nine days remain until the anniversary of my father’s passing, and with it, my customary habit of matching past events to their present dates will conclude. Over the last year, I’ve found solace in reflecting on the moments he was still physically here with us; I often recall, “On this day last year, we did that.” A receipt from a grocery trip reminds me of the foods he loved, and I cherish the memories of our laughter and shared moments. Two days from now marks our last conversation while watching the pre-season Bears game, a moment filled with both joy and heartache. That evening, he enjoyed a hearty meal, and those gathered around him felt relieved that he was eating. “You need your strength,” we often reminded him as we watched his condition decline, his cheeks hollow and his legs frail.
The Bears lost that night, and in typical fashion, he expressed his frustration with the players’ performance. I settled on the couch beside him, ensuring he received his medication on schedule. The hospice nurse had explained the “breakthrough pain,” a sudden and severe discomfort that could arise without consistent doses of morphine. He resisted the hospital bed, a symbol of his illness, and I had to coax him into it, offering reassurances like a parent might to a child.
He slept soundly that night, but by the next day, he was no longer truly present. Though his body lay there, he was on autopilot, attempting to perform the daily routines he had followed for 70 years. He wanted to use the restroom, to drink, to take his medicine. He moved his feet one last time, lost in a haze, avoiding our gazes. He lay on the plastic-covered mattress, surrounded by the pillows he always arranged to his liking, and I learned the stark difference between being unconscious and unresponsive.
“Be careful what you say; he can hear you,” a friend advised me, sharing how her father had responded to a comment shortly before his passing. So, I would ask nurses to step outside, safeguarding our conversations from their clinical assessments. I held the phone to his ear as family members expressed their love from afar, learning to suppress my sobs so he wouldn’t hear. I told him everything would be alright and tried to lighten the mood, reminding him, “You raised an amazing daughter, so I’ve got everything under control. The Sara-tastic is on it.”
When my three boys came to say their goodbyes, they stood by his bedside, tears streaming down their faces. “Dad, the boys are here,” I announced cheerfully, using the nicknames he gave them: “Ethan Blue, Lucas Red, and Max Green send their love.” He managed a smile.
As the week progressed, his breathing became increasingly labored. I left his room on a Friday, following the advice of my family. “He might find it harder to let go if you’re here.” The sunlight streamed through the blinds, and his favorite oldies station played softly in the background. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and assured him I would return in the morning. As I stood to leave, the radio emitted a soft pop and fell silent. I froze, sensing it was a sign of farewell. He passed away early the following morning.
In the freezer, a half-open bag of peas remains, untouched for over a year. My father lived with us during the last six months of his life, sometimes mustering the energy to cook. One evening, he prepared his beloved dish: rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. Since then, those peas have become a symbol of cherished memories. The plastic bag, secured with a thick rubber band, sits in the back of the freezer. Whenever I rummage through for ice cream or frozen waffles, I catch a glimpse of it and pause to reflect.
Time marches on, and it’s hard to believe it’s nearly been a year since I lost my lively, charming father. Yet, the resilience of the human spirit carries us forward toward a semblance of normalcy. Many reassured me, “It gets easier; the first year is the hardest.” It has become more manageable. Perhaps on day 366, I’ll finally decide what to do with those peas. But for now, I still have nine days left.
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Summary
This reflection on grief intertwines memories of a father with the tangible remnants of his life, like the untouched bag of peas in the freezer. As the anniversary of his passing approaches, the author finds solace in remembering shared moments, while also recognizing the resilience required to move forward.
Keyphrase: mourning a parent
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