I helped my father die in home hospice.
The oncologist said those words, the ones that are repeated in hospital rooms, in the middle of alleys, and in the back of ambulances, “There is nothing more we can do.” With those seven words, I began participating in his limbo. He split his time like a firefly. He vacillated between embracing small flickers of life and languishing on the path of lifelessness. His body withered in the middle of my childhood bedroom on a hospital bed and an oxygen tank that ushered air into his lungs. The room was given a pulse by the swoosh-swoosh that came from the tiny breathing machine in the corner.
Three weeks after he complained for the last time that he could not breathe, he passed with this irony hanging over his head: a non-smoker who died of lung cancer.
As Father’s Day passes, his loss is resurrected. In his final days of hospice, I remember he constantly gasped for breath, unable to sit up, stand, walk and talk. But what I witnessed taught me some important parenting lessons that I hope to teach my daughter in the future.
1) Be thankful for your ability to breathe.
My father suffocated to death because his diseased lung prevented him from taking any real breaths. When he possessed the privilege of health, he chose to walk outside everyday. However I choose to use my breath, I embrace it. When I am yelling at my daughter, exercising, eating, ambling to the bathroom in the middle of the night, complaining how one person did this and I expected that, laughing, crying and everything in-between, I try to never take my ability to feel the air in my lungs for granted. Those days that parenting and life becomes “too hard,” take a deep breath and be thankful. It could be much worse.
2) What you believe to be true about someone else, maybe a complete lie.
For almost five years, my family kept my father’s cancer diagnosis a secret. No one knew. Over that period of time, we attended picnics, weddings, dinners, with our new family member, cancer. In the last three weeks before my father’s passing, he finally decided to reveal his reality. People never suspected our battle. I learned to never make assumptions. There is an enormous gulf between your perception of reality and what actually is the truth. Everyone struggles. Don’t believe the Macy’s picture frame version of the perfect family. It does not exist. My lesson to my daughter: everyone is fighting a battle, but just because you may not see or realize it, does not mean that it does not exist.
3) Expect that sometimes life is not joyful, but entrenched in deep pain.
Experiencing the pendulum between sorrow and happiness, I learned that no state is ever permanent. This is the meat of life. We are all swinging back and forth in various times from happy to sad emotions. Parenting can feel that way, especially on those days when nothing appears to meld together, but know that it is temporary. Many times during home hospice, I stood in the middle of my mom’s kitchen and with a hush tone repeated to myself, “This too shall pass.”
4) Say I love you.
My last lines to my father were these three words: “I love you.” As I left my childhood home, he said in his strongest voice, “I love you too.” That was my last conversation with my father. I was unable to make it in time to say goodbye to him. Although people might interpret this advice as a cliché, that is not true. There is nothing cliché about saying I love you to those that matter the most to you. Say it all the time. It matters.
5) Do not leave things undone.
My father, in his decline, ruminated over all of the loose threads that he let linger in his life. These regrets were highlighted in his final days. He could not let go of what he hadn’t done. His procrastination haunted him in real ways. I think we all cling to the word, “later,” but whatever is important, must be thought of in the present. I often emphasize the word, “now,” as a parenting tool and a philosophical truth.
6) Boredom is magnificent.
When in the throngs of caring for someone who is ill, there is so much uncertainty. For a period of years, an unexpected phone call from my family almost always meant that my father had suffered a setback and needed to go to the hospital. I remember one New Year’s Eve where I spent the night in my father’s hospital bedroom. The thinly carpeted floor served as my bed. I heard the faint sounds of Dick Clark counting down to the next year and in that moment, I realized the magnificence of the ordinary, or what some may people label as boring. In that moment, I viewed boredom as a way to embrace routine, health and possessing some remnant of certainty guiding my day. My lesson for my daughter: boredom is extraordinarily peaceful.
So everyday, breathe, be thankful for the mundane and love the people in your life.
Image: “Hand of Dad” by Steve Koukoulas via Flickr.
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.
So eloquently stated as always, Rudri. I especially like Boredom is magnificent — that’s something I need to be continually reminded of… there will always be mundane tasks in life, but whether they are “good” or “bad” is all a matter of perspective. I strive to see them as a comforting routine and a way to serve my family.
Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate your kind compliment.
Boredom is usually a word associated with the negative. After my father’s passing, it is a feeling I tend to cherish. I find much comfort in routine as well. The certainty of it offers me a sense of well being.
Loved your post. I lost my mom to cancer in 2009 and we truly embraced the flickers of life in between…I am truly grateful for those moments. One day she couldnt talk as the tumor was affecting her speech and a little miracle happened the very next day – she responded to her medication and started talking again.. I believe that God exists in those moments.
I am so sorry for your loss, Aruna.
Those flickers help us cope with their loss. It opens up a place where we can hold on and remember and reflect. I am so glad you experienced words with your mother before her passing. Thinking of you.
Good Morning Rudri – I teared up with this one. I am so sorry for your loss.
I think your parenting lessons are life lessons no matter the age of the person. I think the lesson that resonated with me the most. #6 – Bordom is Magnificent. In the small things life is lived and we generally pay no attention to how or why we got to where we are. And yet, it is the little things, the smiles, the trips to the store, the vacuuming of the rug… that takes us through life and we are non- sightseeing participants.
Lesson #2 Also resonated in that we are all spectators on the outside looking in. And unless we ask real questions and are willing to put ourselves out in the path of another person, we will never really know what is going on until it is too late to help or to commisserate.
Thank you for this moving post. GOD Bless.
Carla
Carla,
Thanks so much for your insights. Those things that you mentioned, vacuuming, the trips to the store and other extraneous errands are a reminder that we are healthy and well enough to be able to participate in the doing of those everyday things. It took the passing of my father to help me realize this lesson.
As far as #2 is concerned, you are right, one needs to intersect with people that are unafraid to be vulnerable. That is when the true story may have a chance of revealing itself.
I know how difficult this must have been for you to write. Cancer is horrid, but living it secretly for so long, I just can’t imagine. These are wonderful lessons you learned during this time. Thank you for sharing them, Rudri.
The secret is a subject of my memoir. Yes, painfully difficult to navigate, but I’ve learned so much from witnessing my father’s illness.
So sorry for the pain you’re experiencing all over again due to Father’ Day.. Those are all vital lessons to have learned.. I think we do take for granted the mundane, the little moments – sometimes I need a nap and I do so next to my son and he just plays next to me; his body next to mine is very comforting and the reverse is true as well. I think we try very hard to ‘entertain’ when sometimes not doing anything is the best. Definitely be thankful for breathing – and I should say ‘I love you’ more but those are words I find very difficult to spew. Beautiful words Rudri. Take care -Iva
Thanks, Iva. I often find that I enjoy my everyday life. The certainty built into those moments creates an umbrella of comfort.
Wow. It takes incredible strength to learn from the pain you and your family endured. What a beautiful thought that you, and your daughter, will surely live a sweeter, fuller life because of your father–both in how he lived & how he died. I love so many of these lessons, but especially the reminder to simply breathe–and appreciate it as you do–and to revel in the mundane, ordinary day. Thank you for this…xoxox
Thanks, Dina.
The mundane gained a glimmering quality once I experienced the loss of my father. Because of this new appreciation, I am constantly, constantly grateful for my breath.
You’re making me tear up right now. I can’t believe how long you/he kept that secret, and the unfairness that a non-smoker (or anyone) should get lung cancer.
I am very thankful for every breath, as I watched a dear friend lose her mom to CF – and her poor lungs couldn’t work on their own.
I do love the mundane and the ordinary because I do know what it’s like to be in crisis mode, for long periods of time.
I think when you are in crisis mode, you gain a deeper appreciation for the ordinary. It becomes, at least for me, a treasure. Swinging back and forth between these two opposing emotions is the undercurrent of every life.
I am sorry for your friend’s loss.
Great reminders why we should live with gratitude in our hearts. So hard to watch ….so sad that you had to keep your father’s illness as a secret. It would have helped for you to have support from family and friends. xoxo
I agree, Ayala. Along with watching my father pass, keeping it a secret made some moments unbearable.
Yes. I understand every single word of this and then some. Thank you for writing my grief. Sending thoughts of love.
Thanks, Amy. I am so sorry for your loss. Sending (hugs).
Wonderful share awesome lessons xoxo
Thanks, Mari. I am glad that the lessons resonated with you.