June 20, 2023, started off like most mornings since my dad had entered hospice two weeks prior. I worked beside him all day, glancing from my computer screen every few moments to ensure his chest was rising and falling under his flimsy white and blue hospital gown. I had decided to sleep over at the hospital that night – an intuition that I needed to be there – and the nurses had promised to make a bed for me before the next shift came on.
Around 6:45 pm, I packed up my work stuff for the day, and at 7 pm, standing by his bed before I planned to run downstairs to get snacks, I heard a gurgle noise come from his throat and then his chest went still. Flustered, I ran into the hallway to find a nurse. “ I think he’s gone!” She rushed in to check his pulse and calmly nodded, her eyes intent on mine. Time of death was 7:04 pm.
Leading up to that night, the hospice nurses had explained daily that my dad would choose whether he wanted me to be there when he died. It was how they got me to leave his room each evening. “You have to take care of yourself. It’s an hour’s drive for you. Go home,” they insisted. They had been clear that my dad was in control; he may wait until I walked downstairs to get coffee to make his exit, or he may wait through the night for me to arrive in the morning to pass.
That night, the depth of my dad leaving with me at his side reverberated. It wasn’t until I took a few deep breaths and realized I would never hear his voice again or see him smile that my tears began to flow. I was so grateful to witness his courage as he embarked on what may have been, according to spiritual guru Ram Das, his culminating adventure. Years back, I had been at my mother’s bedside when the paramedics had pronounced her dead, the young EMT meeting my eyes when she said, “I am sorry for your loss.”
Sitting beside my father as we waited for funeral directors to take his body away, I marveled over his transition. As much as I wanted him to stay, I was so proud of him for letting go, for trusting in what was next. In a matter of moments, the color left his body, and he went from being my father, to a yellowed corpse. It was one of the most peaceful experiences in my life, as witnessing my mother leave her body had been, too. The difference was that my dad’s spirit left quickly, whereas my mom’s spirit had lingered, so that hours after she passed, I still felt her presence.
Grief is an unpredictable companion. In the past 365 days, I’ve lived through intense lows, and unexpected highs. With one parent alive, I still felt connected to the earth. With both parents gone, it feels as if the ground below has been pulled out from under me. In this new reality, I am perpetually floating. When good things happen, the people I want to share it with most cannot take my call.
As a spiritual being, I understand that my father’s spirit lives on and may be close by on any given day. I believe that our souls are intertwined, and we will keep knowing one another in different iterations. I truly accept that. But it doesn’t change my mourning him in the flesh and wishing I could see him smile at me one last time.
And yet, there are days when I feel very connected, like a few weeks back, when I dreamed my dad called me and I heard him talking to me very clearly, his voice as real as the rising sun. Then there are days when I feel my parents in my orbit, and touch the air around me, only to find it devoid of any shape or form. I leave yoga or meetings daily and take out my phone to call my dad, or think I must tell my mom about something, and then it hits me that I can only talk to them in my imagination.
My goal for the decade plus that my mom was gone was to make my dad’s remaining days better. There were other goals tied to my career and creative aspirations, but ensuring that my dad’s life included adventure and good times was critical to me, as was making sure he was in good health. With him gone, I find myself asking now what more often. While I understand intellectually I am in a new chapter and my life and career is invested in this new here and now, I am also cataloguing the past as my emotions process, accept, and shift.
In the year since my dad has left, so much has happened. I’ve acquired new responsibilities as trustee – aka keeper of his affairs – which has come with a steep learning curve. Amidst the constant busyness, I don’t feel that I’ve accomplished much in the past 12 months. I worry if my father is proud of me.
When I shared this sentiment with a close friend recently, she reminded me that I have traveled to new and faraway locales – Nepal, Morocco – as well as familiar places – DC, NYC – kept going with races, writing, and career goals. This feeling like I am not enough, like I’m a fraud, also hit the first year of my mom’s passing. I’m not sure why the feeling of letting down someone who is no longer here consumes me, but it does. Experience has taught me that this noise and unrest will quiet down over time and that I’ll worry less about accomplishments and focus more on striving to be the best version of myself and living my life.
It has been hard to find my feelings some days because after so much exertion – cleaning out my dad’s house, organizing the paperwork of his life, getting all in order while also trying to keep my life moving forward – I often don’t know what I think or feel. So much doing takes a toll and moves you into a realm beyond burnout. I have found it challenging to exist alongside my to do lists, and have learned that it’s only when I put them aside that I can begin to assess what matters to me. I have often been on autopilot this year, which I believe has been critical for me to exist and succeed in my corporate life.
As I begin to thaw out, what hits me hardest is that so much time has passed – 100’s of days without my dad, and 1000’s without my mom. It doesn’t seem possible at times, but the calendar teaches me that it is. Life continues, days pass. As I write this, I’ve decided it will be the last article for now that I’ll write on grief and loss. Not because the pain has lessened, but because I believe the next thing cannot happen if I don’t flow forward. I’ve accepted that I will miss my parents for the rest of my life, and that it’s okay, not something to remedy.
The biggest learning for me over the past few months is that the life I’m living is part of my curriculum. I’m not in the wrong class. Regardless of what I want reality to look like, I’ve accepted I’m where I need to be with events unfolding as they should. Reality as always, is okay. The past year has taught me that while there is only the path ahead, looking back is a conduit to remember, learn, adapt, and gather the strength to move forward. Many years back, for a different context, a Rabbi told me, “We celebrate life before death.” So that’s what I’m choosing to do – celebrate life by living it.
Now, when I get to create the story of my dad’s ever after, I envision him watching a western on TV, or sitting in his office at his typewriter, where he loved to write letters. When I was in college, he often wrote me two-page single-spaced letters full of his daily adventures at work and with my mom. Maybe he’s eating his favorite Entenmann’s chocolate-frosted donuts or better yet, a warm blueberry pie-a-la-mode topped with fresh whipped cream. In this imagined version, he is healthy and laughing, his eyes sparkling, his smile wide and contagious. I’m hopeful he’s with my mom, and they are witnessing my life and those of their loved ones with joy and wonder, following our stories daily, as if they were soap operas unfolding.
I like to imagine them steering me with invisible strings when I’m about to veer off course, which may come to me in the form of a song, a comment from someone nearby, or a physical reaction. I am aware of the sounds and sights of the universe and trying to move in directions that feel right to me – and right for the team we’ve become. Whenever I want to complain or scream or give up, I listen for my dad’s “every day I wake up is a good day” or his “all is quiet on the western front,” or “the show must go on.” It must, I would agree with him – the show must go on. And with that in mind, I venture into my next chapters with openness and light, with acceptance and gratitude, and pray that I live up to and into myself as I travel towards my own culminating adventure.
