On Sunday morning, March 8, I woke up around 7 am. I slept horribly the night before, thinking at any moment I could receive a call from my brother, Eric, letting me know that our father had passed away. The night before I began to sob uncontrollably as my husband, Ric, held me. I hadn't cried like that in I don't know how long. Looking back, both of these events were preparing me for what lie ahead.
Eric had tried to call me several times that morning, but my phone was not functioning correctly on its Do Not Disturb setting. Eventually, after waking at 7, I went back to sleep (probably around 8:30). When I woke up, I saw that I had three missed calls from Eric. I called back immediately, knowing what he would say, so it was no surprise when he told me that dad was "gone."
Eric was already at the nursing home, with my mom and my dad's body, when I spoke to him. I told him I had to get ready, then I would be on my way. I brushed my teeth and hurriedly threw on clothes from the day before, feeling like I had just woken up from a sound sleep. But that was just a facade. As I walked down the stairs in a fog, Ric looked for a protein bar for me, mistakenly thinking I would want to eat. We both rushed out to his car, the bright sun hitting us in our faces as we both, almost in unison, put on our sunglasses.
We almost always go to church on Sunday, but I wanted to sleep in since I had an emotional, sleepless night and we had lost an hour due to Daylight Savings Time. I had flown into Denver late Friday night and was still exhausted from getting no sleep that night as well. I was an emotional wreck before I even found out that my dad had died.
As we made the 20 minute trip to see my dad, I cried a little bit, but I think, for the most part, I went into denial mode. I knew I had to keep it together at least until I saw him. I thought about all the other times I made the trip on Sunday mornings to church, then to see my parents, and this one seemed strangely familiar. Only this time one parent would be there to greet me, the other gone forever, never to be visited again.
I started the short walk from the car to the door, then the door down the hall to the room my parents shared. As I turned the corner, I heard Eric's voice call my name. He and my mom were sitting in a vacant room. I hugged him, then asked my mom how she was. Eric indicated that she understood what had just happened to dad (we had been concerned that she wouldn't due to having Alzheimer's). Eric had taken her out of the room where dad had been, to give her a break from the reality that lie in front of her: her husband of over 60 years had decided to go first.
Eric asked her if she would like to go say one final goodbye to our father and she said yes. I steeled myself for what I would see when I walked into the room. There on the bed, dad's lifeless body lay, in the same position he had been less than 24 hours before when my three kids and I had gone to visit him one last time. From a distance I could see how white his face was and that is when the reality hit me: my dad is really dead. I walked over to him and immediately started to cry, telling him I loved him and telling him goodbye.
Eric told my mom to say goodbye and she said "you first." So Eric said goodbye, then I did. I kissed him on his forehead, all the while knowing that my dad was no longer here; only his body was. His soul had already long departed. And I told him he was the best dad ever. We lingered for a bit, then left his room for good, retreating back to the empty room we'd been in before. We talked to mom, reminding her of good memories, but all she did was moan, over and over again. Seeing her like that was heart-wrenching and was really the worst part of all. I can't even begin to know how awful it must be to have your partner of decades die and leave you alone, for the very first time in a very long time.
I wheeled my mom into the dining room as it was almost time to eat lunch. I heard a woman named Ruth at a table close by telling a worker that my parents were the nicest couple, not knowing what had just happened to my dad. She looked at me, introduced herself, then I did the same. I told her my dad had just died and she said,"That's so sad. Does your mom want someone to eat lunch with her?" I asked my mom and she said she was fine. I looked at my dad's side of the table, his place card that read "JAMES", still in its spot, as if nothing had happened. But so much had.
The man who I called dad, who instilled in me a love of all things animal, who passed on his love of the beach, who always was concerned about my safety, who moved back to Colorado so he could be close to my son, Joseph, his first grandchild. The man who I'm sure cried the day I was born, who held me, nurtured me, made sure I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach and clothes on my back, left me after 56 years of being by great protector.
Earlier I had asked Eric what time dad passed away and he said about 7 am, the very same time I had woken unexpectedly that morning. And I think I grieved so hard the night before because I knew in my heart my dad would be gone in the morning. Like I said at the beginning on this story, both of those events were preparing me for the inevitable.
As if anyone can ever be prepared...
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