I broke down last night.
I could feel it coming. I laid in bed unable to fall asleep for a while. I got up to get a snack with the intention of sitting in the living room and reading my book until I finished and would go back to bed.
I didn’t even make it to the couch before I started crying harder than I have since the week my dad passed away.
I couldn’t sleep because all I could think about was the last days of his life. The last 36 hours. Feeling his hand so lightly squeeze mine back. Somehow knowing in his groan, in his mutterings, that they would be his last. Fighting for him to be pain-free. Watching him disappear. Seeing his pulse through his thin skin, feeling his cheek to see if he was still warm, his breathing becoming mechanical as he transitioned but before his body let him free. Defending any ounce of dignity that he could have in his last moments. And then when I knew he had taken his last breath, touching his chest and feeling how rigid he had become, touching his cheek as time went on to feel him lose his warmth, touching his hand and feeling no connection back. Seeing the family of deer outside his window, on a chilly and rainy morning. Calling Zac to tell him our dad had died and he needed to come. Hugging Zac when he got there, knowing that both of us wanted nothing but to erase this pain for the other. Watching Zac say good-bye to our dad. Seeing a single deer run by the window as he did so. Watching the ‘confirmation’ process and being told his time of death was 6:35am, but me knowing very well he took his last breath at 4:42am that morning. Seeing another single deer run by the window when our Aunt arrived. How he looked, his face, it’s etched in my mind. And knowing that the last time I saw him was being pushed down the hallway in a body bag, watching this cart carrying a purple paisley printed bag knowing that what was inside was my dad’s body, it’s haunting me.
A couple of days before, when my dad arrived to the nursing facility, Zac had brought a suitcase of belongings from his house. My dad had never expected to not go home again. So the morning that he passed, we made sure everything was in his suitcase, his mouthwash, his blanket, his kindle, his notepads, even the german chocolate cake he didn’t get a chance to finish. We put everything in the car to take back to a house that Zac and I suddenly owned.
I went through every step in my head, several times, last night. And I found myself asking him why he left, why he was gone. Internally screaming that I was angry that he was gone, that I wasn’t ready or prepared. Angry at the doctors who didn’t listen, the nurses who didn’t read his chart or his orders correctly, and angry at him for not being here.
I was quick to realize that for every ounce of anger I felt/feel, I’m also so heartbroken for him. He didn’t want this. He never would’ve wanted this for Zac and I. He never would’ve wanted us to know this pain. And I imagine he was looking down on me last night, weeping, wishing he could hug me and take away my pain. I’m also heartbroken knowing that how angry I am, he must’ve felt in his few short days between going to the emergency room and when he passed. I know he was mad when he realized he had been right and justified, and his doctors had dismissed him. I know he was mad when he realized what all he would miss in our lives. I know he was mad when he had to come to terms with his mortality so quickly, and he was already so tired.
I sat on the couch devastated and crying, thinking I’d be up all night, unable to sleep with the images in my head. And now, part of me knows my dad was with me because all I remember is suddenly feeling so exhausted, letting my head fall back, and my eyes closing. I slept on the couch for a few hours and when I woke up, I was able to make it back to bed and fall asleep. I think my dad heard and understood my anger, my sadness, my exhaustion, and he helped me how he could, knowing I needed rest even if I couldn’t find my own peace in the moment.