I know I lost the Dad that most people knew a few years ago, bit by bit. Dementia had slowly robbed him of his memories, his passions, talents and social warmth over the last couple of decades. Although he did maintain an ability to banter with silly jokes that weren’t connected to a place or time. The hospice nurses and social workers laughed and were charmed by his wit and wise cracks during their weekly visits
But today, when his physical body stopped breathing, rhythmically beating and creating heat…that is when his loss hit us so hard. It’s easy to be lulled into a feeling of relief when we see his struggling body give up the fight and surrender to nature and what awaits beyond. When we know that he will no longer have to fight the limits that illness had put on his body and mind, there is a sense of peace when we know it is over. Dementia had slowly morphed our Dad, who lived his life by doing right by EVERYone even at the detriment of himself or his livelihood, to a confused and meek “old man”.
As he took his last breath, I still had this physical body to talk to, to touch, to treasure, with all of the lovely memories attached. But within hours after he passed, the nice young men with the gurney dressed in a hand-stitched quilt came and took my Dad away in an unmarked van at midnight. My Mom, who had been stoic and ridiculously matter-of-fact until that moment, was greatly shaken by the physical removal of her life partner…her sidekick for 65 years, her co-parent of six children, sobbing like I’ve never heard her sob before.
We all knew that he would be leaving us. He had been in hospice care for nearly 2 months and had been declining in physical, but mostly mental abilities for years. But reality is hard and reality can really suck. I think it’s okay to say that. I think it’s okay to be really, really sad.
