Just nine more days. Nine days until I wrap up my annual habit of reflecting on last year’s events that align with today’s date. The anniversary of my father’s passing is looming, and throughout this past year, I’ve found solace in the memories we created together. On some days, I think, “Last year on this date, we did this,” and it’s comforting to recall the receipts that reveal the foods he loved. I remember how, just two days from now, we shared our final conversation while watching a pre-season football game. That night, he enjoyed a hearty meal, and those around him felt relieved to see him eat. “You need your strength,” we would chant, watching as he grew frailer, his cheeks hollow and legs resembling twigs.
The game didn’t end well for his team, and in typical fashion, he turned off the TV in frustration, voicing his grievances about the players’ performance. I made my bed on the couch next to him to ensure he received his medication when needed. The hospice nurse had warned us about “breakthrough pain,” a sudden and intense discomfort that could strike if the morphine wasn’t administered consistently. He resisted the hospital bed, seeing it as just another reminder of his declining health. “You’ll be much more comfortable, Dad,” I coaxed, manipulating the bed’s remote like I was entertaining a toddler.
He slept soundly that night, but the next day, he was gone. Not in body, but in spirit. His physical form lingered, attempting to engage in the daily rituals he’d performed for seventy years—wanting to use the restroom, seeking a drink, or taking his medicine. His feet shuffled one last time as his mind wandered, disconnected from reality. His gaze didn’t meet ours; we had lost that connection. He lay on the plastic mattress, covered in flannel, amidst the pillows he would meticulously rearrange each night until satisfied. He closed his eyes and I learned the heavy meaning of a new term: unresponsive.
Unresponsive means unable to react. “Be mindful of what you say, he can still hear you,” a friend cautioned me, recalling how her father had responded with a thumbs-up just a day before he passed. Because of this, I would usher nurses out of his room when they casually discussed his impending departure or remarked on how “his skin is beginning to break down.”
I held the phone to his ear, letting family members from afar express their love. I learned to stifle my sobs so he wouldn’t hear me. “We’ll all be okay, Dad. No need to worry,” I assured him. With his penchant for humor, I kept things light: “You raised an amazing daughter; I’ve got this all under control.”
When my three boys said their goodbyes, they stood by his bedside, speechless, their faces drenched in tears. “Dad, the boys are here,” I said cheerfully, introducing them with their playful nicknames: “Jackson Bear, Max the Great, and Brody Rocket are here and they love you.” He managed a smile.
As the week progressed, his breathing became increasingly labored. I took my family’s advice and left his room that Friday afternoon. “He might not want to let go if you’re here,” they said. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, and the radio played softly in the background, his favorite oldies station. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and said, “Dad, I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll be back in the morning.” As I stood to leave, the radio made a soft popping sound and fell silent. I froze. Though it sounds a bit crazy, that felt like a final farewell. He passed away early the next morning.
In the freezer, there’s still half a bag of frozen peas from over a year ago. My dad had lived with us during the last six months of his life, occasionally cooking when he felt up to it. One night, he prepared his favorite dish—rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. I haven’t touched the peas since then; they hold a memory I can’t bear to part with. The plastic bag, neatly folded and secured with a rubber band, sits tucked away in a corner of the freezer. Occasionally, when I rummage through for frozen waffles or ice cream, I spot it and pause to remember.
Life is a whirlwind, and it’s hard to believe that nearly a year has passed since I lost my vibrant, “life of the party” father. Yet, the human spirit is resilient, pushing us toward normalcy. Many reassured me, “It will get easier; the first year is the toughest.” And while it has, I wonder what I’ll do with those peas on day 366. But for now, there are still nine days left.
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In summary, the journey of mourning my father is intricately tied to the small, tangible memories we shared, like a bag of frozen peas that has become a symbol of love and loss. As I reflect on the past year, I find strength in the resilience of the human spirit and the memories that continue to shape my life.
Keyphrase: mourning process and memory
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