I visited with the staff at my father’s rest home; they were extremely friendly and kind, and didn’t mind going over the details of his decline, highlighting the fun things he’d done, the night he dressed up and they did a mock prom at the rest home, every one of them agreed that he loved his Snickers. My father was in a great place. After a few days of visiting him, I think he got tired of my hovering. I know my dad. I was his first child and I have lived with him the longest, not to mention I got his nose-I could smell the change in the air.

After three days with him, when he dozed off, I closed the curtains and turned off the TV. I wanted him to get the best rest possible, it probably really didn’t matter. TV was comfort for him. If he could hear it in his sleep maybe that was better. By the end of that Monday night, he was looking at me and nodding his head from side to side. Once in a while he could croak something out but communication felt the same as with a baby. Eye contact and facial expressions went a long way. He sat there shaking his head at me. The disapproving look I knew well from my childhood.

“Do you want me to go Dad?” I asked, feeling very adult and magnanimous. I understood he was an introvert and my continual presence was probably too much for him.

He nodded. I asked him if he wanted me to bring him some Cracker Barrel Macaroni and Cheese. He nodded with enthusiasm. I promised to bring it the next day. After giving him some last minute ice chips, I gathered my things and left.

I couldn’t help comparing this time with my father to the last months my mother. She begged to have me around and I did everything I could to rearrange my schedule to make that possible. Those last months allowed me to wrap up and put closure on our often volatile, rarely loving relationship. At the end we talked, we drove around listening to music and visiting sights from my childhood: our old house, my grandparents old home, spotted deer in the woods, we watched my daughter toddle around, mom from her greasy blue recliner, me from a spot on the floor. I could finally face her and hold her gaze.  In her weakness she was a more gentle person for the most part, easier to be around and so much easier to do things for. I got to be actively involved in her last days. My father had my stepmother to arrange his life, and didn’t need me.  My mother was afraid and fighting the end. Dad was quietly slipping away, and seemed to need to be alone.

After trying to convince myself I didn’t care, I went back to my stepmother’s house and cried. I don’t think I have felt that sad and afraid and lonely since I woke up in a seedy hotel in LA when I was 14. Back then, running away was a way to punish my parents; I was that sure of their continued place in my life. This time I was facing the prospect of my last parent leaving me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. On top of this was my father didn’t even want me around. I was in the way and because of this, I let him down. I was still glad to have had those days with him, but began to feel I had to get out of there.

The next morning I put my brightest face on and went back.  One of his aids, a bright faced jolly girl was feeding him his breakfast when I came in. Feeding dad was an hour long process. He took a bite, chewed; he would look at the TV, then have to be brought back to the task several minutes later. It took a long time before he got enough in him. Once he was full he would shake his head to signal that he was done. 

The literature and my doctor cousin say that when we feed people who can’t feed themselves the benefit is that they get human contact and feel love that way.

His eyes held distinct disapproval as I came in. I felt like I did when I was thirteen and had done something wrong, facing him and trying to act innocent. I continued to smile, with a heavy stomach, my throat still constricted and sore from crying. What a physical process it is to lose someone. Who knew?

“Can I feed him?” I asked the aid.

I held the spoonful of cereal to lips that were both dry and slick with the remains of the last bites. He wouldn’t eat for me.

“Do you want her to feed your dad?” I asked him, gesturing to the aid. He nodded yes and looked at her and smiled.

“Do you want me to go dad?” I asked.

He looked at me and nodded. There was no mistaking what he meant.

I stood up and kissed him on the forehead, it was cool. Too cool.

I left, trying not to cry before I got to the car. One of the aids stopped me in the hallway, “You coming back later sweetie?”

“No,” I said. I debated whether or not to tell her but I couldn’t stop myself.  “He sent me away.” My eyes filled with tears again, my throat began to close and my stomach was so tight I knew soon I would not be able to breathe.

“He didn’t do that. You daddy just tired that’s all,” she said.

I smiled and nodded and left.

On the way back to my stepmother’s house I started to think about plane fares, and how much it would cost to change my ticket. I didn’t care. I had to get out of there. I thought if I made it back early enough I could still go to my class the next morning. I was pissed at my husband because his reaction all along was annoyance at my leaving him with the children. I channeled my anger in his direction. I fumed as I drove, thinking about how I would just show up and try to make it seem like it was all his fault that I had to come back early. How humiliating to explain that my father had sent me away after rearranging my travel plans, hunting down babysitters, and defying him so I could be with my father  who now didn’t even want me around.

For me, I continued to remind myself, my uncle’s words from months before came back. He was referring to my grandmother when he said, “It’s only for you sweetie, she won’t remember you after you leave.” I actually don’t agree with this, but I played the words over in my head nonetheless.

When I got near my stepmother’s house, I took a wrong turn and drove around and around, under huge pine trees and gorgeous picture book homes with brown pine needle lawns. The town has a sleepy quality, soothing, and reassuring in its perfection. I needed a few more minutes before facing my stepmother.

 Finally my frustration broke into sobs that came from deep inside my stomach, farther down than that even. I have never cried so hard in my life. It was uncontrollable and I had to pull over under an enormous Pine near a railroad track. The emotion was painful and utterly physical. I was hurt and replayed all the hurt and rejection I felt growing up, the disappointments at my grades, the inability to listen and really pay attention, the distance, leaving my mother, it went on and on.

I remembered the time I saw my father as a teenager, he had come to Montana to visit us after my parents divorced. Time alone with him was becoming more and more rare, the time I spent with him had to be shared with my sisters and stepmother. He was going to fly back to Maryland the next day; I drove him to the drugstore and waited in the car while he went in.  I was acutely aware then, sitting in my car, playing the loud music that I’d held off playing all night for his sake, that that would be the last time I would have that type of time with him. That was the closest I would ever be to him again. I was sixteen.

Another time, he let my mother, euphorically manic at the time: crazy, mean, drive away with us, to live all the way across the country. He was the adult, he should have stopped her.   All the rationalizing I generally did on his behalf, all the understanding: I would have been just as cowardly, what could he do? Life in reality is much more complicated than a sixteen year old can judge.  I set these thoughts aside and it all came. Afterward I felt some measure of guilt, but a definite relief for letting it out as well. I loved my father very much, but with this last time with him, I had to let out the other side, the part that felt betrayed, and yes, I finally admitted, angry, for all his impossible expectations and lack of interest in my life. How could he send me away? I knew how, and I didn’t blame him, but I had to finally acknowledge it anyway, and this was the perfect excuse.

At that moment, I hated him. I hated myself. Macaroni and Cheese you say? Not on my watch, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself (I still lash myself with this one on bad days.) I wanted my mother who would have understood it all, even if she’d have changed the subject to mountain climbing a minute later. I was so angry and sad that I couldn’t connect in any meaningful way this one last time.

I finally pulled myself together and tried to be positive. I would get a ticket and arrive home that night. I would be able to go to my class in the morning. At least there were good things to look forward to. Since my father’s health took this final turn I had looked forward to my Wednesdays on Whidbey. My teacher reminded me in some ways of how my mother could have been if she wasn’t totally bonkers. I was focused on my writing and most of the class participants were over sixty. I don’t know if that had anything to do with anything, but it all added to the comfort factor.

I called my husband from Atlanta, prepared to let him have it.

I sat on the floor next to the wall outlet, charging my computer and iPod when I called him, “I’m in Atlanta. I should be in Seattle in a few more hours.”

“What happened?” His voice was soft and warm and just then I had no more energy left to be mad at anyone.

I tried to control the shaking in my voice when I explained everything, “He didn’t want me anymore. I had to get away. I want to come home.”

“I am so sorry,” he said. And I believed him.

Just then I only wanted to be with him and my girls, where life was happy, simple and hopeful.

I made it home around midnight, and decided I would play it by ear in the morning. If I was going to go to my class I had to get up around 6 to make it out to Whidbey Island by 10. I woke up at 5:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked me.

“Nope.”

 “Fine, let’s load up the kids and go. We can all go and then do something fun afterwards.”

I loved him so much then. He really does try and I was so glad I hadn’t unloaded all my hurt on him before.

We made it to my class, my teacher was glad to see me and for a few hours I got to get lost in the other student’s work, one of which was writing about a crotchety old guy with Alzheimer’s. Since the beginning of that class I have loved that story because it helped me to feel closer to my father by experiencing what it may have been like inside his head.

For a few days I was able to sink in to a normal routine again, enjoying my family, my class, my internship. I knew it was not going to last. Just like with my mother, I knew the second to last time I saw her that it was going to be the last time I saw her anywhere near well, and I was right. There is a look they get, when they start letting go, I believe I was there to watch that come over both of my parents. The worst part is there isn’t anything to be done to change their minds.  Mom asked me to stay with her then but I had to get back to my family. When I left her I had the feeling something was lurking around the corner and drove home with anxiety’s razor blades slicing holes in my gut.

Powerless: A word and concept I have spent over twenty years of my life coming to understand.

I flew back only a few days later, and saw my father a few more times before he passed on. My sister was there, and my uncle made it just before he passed.

That was six months ago. I have joined a group to discuss the effects of this loss, and try to move on. I do not like the person I am becoming: morose, anxiety ridden, unable to concentrate, or continue with things I love. I feel like I am losing my mind, and wonder if I am. Can all this be attributed to the grief process, and if so, when does it end? I hope that by consciously addressing the fact that my father is gone and my mother as well, I can move on faster and get back to the old self. I miss the me that wants to write, achieve, and be a good mother. Some days I feel I am back to that and then the next day comes and it’s right back to pushing through, making it to the end of one more day, making plans and setting goals in hopes that they will matter to me some day. I would like to stop pretending to care and be passionate again, eager.

I do believe the group and things I’ve learned have helped already. They’ve made me see that what is going on is normal and they encourage me to stop trying to control, or evade the feelings, or lack of them, and just let it be what it is-grief.  A few weeks ago the thought popped into my head that I might start clearing out some of my mother’s papers, and the thought didn’t strike panic through every fiber of my being as it normally would. I am not ready to do it yet, but I am encouraged by the fact that I can even consider it. I cling to little things like this now. The good days are proof that it isn’t going to stay bad- right?