Dad's anniversary

They say that when someone has died, it takes a while for that feeling of loss to become something we can manage. I was reminded that one day I would think of the happy times, not the last months of my father's dying. Today, 7 years later, on the anniversary of his death, I think of the life he lived, that I knew of and was part of. Not the years before, when he raised his first family, my brothers and eldest sister. But of the second family I felt intimately part of, made of my my second sister and I.

Tonight I am thinking about my father sitting next to his desk lamp, painting life on red clay. I am thinking of him flying gliders, particulary the red one he loved so much. I am thinking about the short time that my parents separated and how happy I was to be reunited with him again. To sit at the same kitchen table where he made art, watching him preparing a cup of tea for me.

But my mind moves back and forth from his living hours to his dying hours. I can still see him on the hospital bed, the smell of chemicals, a curtain drawn between him and his roommate. Moments when he was conscious, and lovingly acknowledged my presence. Moments when he was unconscious, not responding to light, to sound. And I think about the the times I visited him at the hospital and how I prayed that the loud cries of pain that came from a pain-ridden dying body, trapped in a bed, in a cold green room, under thin white blankets,belonged to someone else.

Iremember his asking us, when he was aware, and could talk to help him die.Then days later, watching him cry, his face wet with tears. Wanting so desperately to talk, to walk, to be well again. Letting us go, but not ready to let go. Watching us come and go until he slipped away into unconsciousness.

I think of our final choice, which I did not consider at the time to be a gift of kindness. But now looking back, it was the only gift we could give him. To release him. The doctors pulled his feeding tube. Then one August day, he took his last breath. And now, somehow, we breathe his breath, because we are part of him and he is part of us. The pain has become tolerable, but the memories are a mix of great joy and tremendous sadness.