“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. . . There is sort of invisible blanket between the world and me.” C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Oh, there it is again. That damn grey oxygen tank. And the cannula through his nose. His feet firmly rest on the shiny silver wheelchair pedestals,while the rest of his body is telling another story. I look at his eyes, but what stares at me is his bald head. I am determined not to meet his gaze. I can’t breathe this stranger’s story today.
It means that I have to revisit my father’s home hospice days.
Father’s arms stretch above him, grabbing air, but finding nothing there. He lacked the capacity to do the most basic. Taking a breath. He yells at me, “Turn up the oxygen lever to the highest. Is it on four? Turn it up. Oh, It doesn’t work. I can’t breathe. Fix it please.”
I can’t. Because there is nothing to fix. I don’t say that to him. I save those words. My mouth is unable to utter, “Dad, the oxygen machine is at its highest level. You can’t breathe because your remaining lung is riddled with diseased cells, ones that are unable to sustain you.”
I stay silent. Instead, I plant distractions. “You got to take your pills, Dad. Is your neck comfortable? Can I read you the paper?” His eyes flutter and he says, “I just want to sleep.”
My mind has replayed that conversation over and over again. This week I’ve stood on the edge of melancholy, where I don’t know what to feel. I accept this emotion because today is my father’s 76th birthday. To honor him, my mom, daughter and husband went out for dinner to celebrate his birthday. I thought about all the things I didn’t say and would say to him if he was here. And I wondered, why do we save those last words? Why don’t we say them more often? Surrender to what we really want to say to our loved ones. Is it fear holding us back? Or the idea that we always have more time?
I have no real answers to these questions. But grief has taught me to surrender more. To let the words inside of me be free.
Happy Birthday Dad. I love and miss you.
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
I think it’s inevitable that we revisit our last moments with those we love, on the days that we used to honor them. It has been more than 20 years since my own dad’s passing, and his birthday remains a day in which I remember, grieve, and then feel grateful for having had him.
I hope this day treats you and your family kindly, Rudri.
BLW, Yes, I think sometimes I lose sight of all of the good years we shared as a family. And your comment reminded me to rejoice in all of our past celebrations. We honored his memory by remembering him and talking about his quirks over dinner. Thanks for your words. xoxo
I think we hold back those last words because to utter them makes the finality (is that a word?) all too real. Hugs to you today, dear Rudri.
Thank you Suzicate. We do hold back, but I wish we didn’t.
My friend, I am with you.
I know Kitch. Sending xoxo and hugs to you and your Momma.
I don’t know why we hold back the most important words, Rudri. For me, I think it’s because my family meets vulnerability with humor, deflection, a turning of the tables and your most heart-felt words wind up looking cheesy and artificial when it’s done. I suppose many families are like that because otherwise, the pain would be too constant and too powerful. We have to find and encourage the joy wherever we find it.
Kelly, thanks for bringing this perspective to the table. Sometimes I get so caught up in the grief that I forget that during my father’s last days there were tiny pockets of laughter that maybe lasted for a few seconds. But they were there. Signs of goodness that reminded us of how things were before he got sick.
I think that having to admit that you’re uttering your last words to someone is much too painful and denial (or perhaps a distant hope) works to lessen it. I don’t know. My father has been gone for many years; his birthday and day of death are engraved in my memory. And every now and there, I’m still hit with a wave of longing.
I believe denial is present even though you know the inevitable is coming. By saying the last words out loud, you start to prepare yourself for what you have been avoiding all along.
Oh my God, I have goose bumps. Yesterday July 28th would have been my mom’s birthday. I almost wrote about it but my brain was scattered and I felt sad. Last night we toasted her birthday. A month from now on August 26th is when she passed. I sat there telling her over and over that I loved her. I knew that I had not said it enough while she was alive. I am thinking of you and I share your pain. Rudri, I think that they can feel our love still. xo.
Ayala,
I know we’ve discussed at length about our shared grief. It helps to have someone who understands. The bereaved can only be understood by those who have experienced such sorrow. xoxo
This was chilling and beautiful. You’re right, we do save those words until it’s too late. I don’t know why. Maybe because we hope the other person knows already. Because even if we don’t say how we feel, I’m sure it can be felt.
Thanks Crystal for your words. I do agree there are certain feelings that you hope the person just senses. But sometimes it is nice to hear these emotions articulated.
Surrendering is so important, something I struggle with. And I don’t know why we don’t tell people how we really feel, or ask the questions we really want to know. I do try. I’ll remember your story next time I waffle.
I think it is a moment we might be expecting but are wholly avoiding. For me, I think uttering those words aloud is letting go of some last pieces of hope.
Oh Rudri. I can just always tell how much you miss your Dad. Hugs to you.
I do miss him TIffany. Everyday. Thanks for the hugs.