Or, surviving the loss of my parents.
Surviving a loved one’s death can only be personal and subjective. We all react differently, we all perceive differently, we all emote differently. Some feel the loss more keenly than others, some not so much. But one thing you can be sure of is, the loss of a loved one changes you no matter what your relationship was till that point.
I lost my father to lung cancer in 1991, he was only 68 years of age. His ‘illness’ was slow, debilitating, terrifying and painful right through till the last few weeks when, being cared for in our local hospice, my father passed quietly, almost peacefully after his (and yes, our) two year ordeal.
Heroic in her efforts and, till those last few weeks, my mother took on the all but lonely burden of looking after my father almost singlehandedly. Albeit with help, where we could, from the rest of us. Supporting and bolstering my mother, where we could, during a time where home care from any nursing services was, at best, minimal. Closer to the end, and before he was lucky enough to get into hospice care—and yes, I say lucky, because, due to space limitations, and the lack of hospice care in general, most people either die at home, or in hospital. And usually, with minimal care and attention. My mother had to feed, bath, dress and care for my father—a man she had already dedicated her life to for most of her adult life, sharing all the highs and lows along the way and giving birth to, and bringing up six children.
Trying to help her, as she tried to maintain my father’s dignity and integrity, was heartbreaking and gut wrenching. Especially on the last day when, with my mother, we watched the frail comatose shell that had once been my father, finally gave his last breath. I was holding his hand and gently rubbing his head in a way I had done from earliest childhood, when he simply stopped breathing. No drama. No wailing. No more pain. He was no longer there.
For a few minutes neither my mother nor I said anything as, entranced, a painted butterfly, a Red Admiral if I recall, fluttered silently around my father’s bed. It was as if this beautiful, transient insect had come to finally take my father, or show my mother and I that even in his passing, my father may have transformed and gone elsewhere. A thought we quietly shared after the butterfly drifted out through the open French windows, and into a garden lush with summer flowers.
That Red Admiral, or maybe it was another, silenced everyone at the wake a few days later, in my mother’s back garden. It came and fluttered about us for a few precious moments before leaving. Was it my father saying a final goodbye? We’ll never know.
My mother was a big believer in signs and I know, took this one to heart.
Eight years later, I felt my heart skip a beat when my phone rang. It was a brightly cold February morning, a Saturday, we were waiting to board a horse-drawn sleigh for a ride around the snow-covered Plains of Abraham, during the winter Carnaval here in Québec City. And, for a split second—as my niece gave me the news that my mother had been taken into hospital having suffered a heart attack—I thought I saw a brightly coloured butterfly. It was impossible, of course it was. It was minus fifteen degrees, and ice crystals formed each time we exhaled. But just for a fraction of a second, out the corner of my eye. I saw it.
I’m not sure I heard a thing my niece said from that point on, calling from the UK. I kept turning in a circle much to the consternation of my partner who kept trying to see what it was I was looking for. They told me later, I had tears in my eyes. I don’t remember. All I remember was the cold dread I felt erupt in my chest.
My niece and I shared a few more words with her promising to let me know any and all news the minute she could. But I knew it wasn’t going to end well. Just over twenty-four hours later, after a massive stroke, my mother was dead. She had always said she wanted to go quickly, and without knowing. I can only hope it was as sudden as my brother said, and that she left us without the long, drawn out pain my father suffered through.
If you ask me now which loss hurt me the most or hit me hardest, you would think I would say that of my father. After the long, painful struggle, watching the man wither away and die slowly. But the truth is, I would have to say the loss of my mother hit me harder. With my father it was, by the time he slipped away, almost a blessed relief. But the suddenness of my mother’s death gave me no time whatsoever to say, I love you, or even a goodbye.
And, without that goodbye, I don’t think I’ve ever come to terms with her passing.
So, Mum, this is for you … goodbye.
Footnote:
My niece, The Oracle Genius, emailed me to say that later, much later, while waiting on a London Tube station, she could have sworn she saw him, her grandfather, sitting a few feet away from her. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone, obscured by the rush hour crowd.
Photo by Jacqueline O’Gara on Unsplash
Oh Alex…
What a beautiful tribute to the pain and joy of loving and losing.
It’s one thing to know intellectually our loved ones could be snatched from us at any moment, but yet in our heart I think we all feel like it could never happen to us.
As you know I am tremendously fortunate to have both my parents still alive and a few years ago they started relocating each winter to a rental home not far from where I live. I was able to be with them at lunchtime today; Mom’s cooking tastes the same. I picked them up some things that were on sale at the grocery store. I know that if something happened tomorrow I would be devastated, but I do feel like I’m doing everything I can to grasp these moments that are so transient with my parents who I love so dearly…but there is a bittersweetness to each visit as I know we’re inching closer to a forever separation.
This post gave me all the feels. Thanks for sharing so vulnerably and openly. It was lovely.
Thank you for your kind words, Elisabeth. It’s this time of year I feel it the most and when I start thinking about family Christmas of my childhood. I still have happy memories but yes, you’re right. You have to try and treasure every moment you can with your parents, especially if they are getting on in years.
I love that your parents come and stay nearby over the winter months, so that you can create so many more moments together making memories for later. It’s obvious you understand the significance, and I hope your kids understand, later, how lucky they were as well.
Try not think about the forever separation, it will come soon enough, but instead, enjoy what you have while you have it. That time together.
What a lovely goodbye. I was actually just thinking about how sudden death is sometimes harder on us that the long drawn out ones. It’s not that we’ve had time to prepare – I feel like you never really can – but like you said, the relief they are no longer living in pain, and in some instances, depending on what’s going on, they aren’t even themselves anymore and it feels like you lost them well before they passed. Thanks for sharing this with us.
Yes, it’s one of those strange things that we all had plenty of time to come to terms with the loss of my father and, at the end, it was a blessing when he slipped away because, as you say, he was no longer there with us anymore.
With my mum? It was something of a shock for us all as it was so sudden and so quick. No one really had time to react or say goodbye. That was the hardest thing for me especially as I was living in Canada when it happened.
My heart goes out to you.
Luckily bth my parents are still alive and I hope I have another 30 years with them. Fingers crossed.
But I have had similar experiences with the death of my grandparents.
And yes the sudden ones are the hard ones. The only were you plan a visit postpone it because some “more important” wants to visit and it is too much and then you are left with the day after they die.
While guiding another grandparent through alzheimer’s and slowly loosing them is another heartache. Or sitting for nights at the bed and watching the final fight, holding the hand and know it can be the last moment. It is a different thing. More peaceful. While you sit you come to terms with what is happening. The sudden one is reaping you of that.
Thank you for sharing your experience. It spoke to me. More than you know.
And I am very sorry for your loss and that you never were able to say our goodbyes.
Oh, I am so sorry that you have knowing the heartache and loss of your grandparents. It’s so difficult to come to terms with when the event is so sudden and takes everyone by surprise. We are left empty at not being able to say goodbye.
Death is hard on us all in different way. I cannot imagine the heartbreak and pain of watching a family member go through Alzheimers and how hard that is on those left living. So difficult, like cancer. Slow and soul destroying.
I am so glad if my words helped you with your own loss and grief. And hope you have some wonderful memories in your heart to hold onto.
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