Sleep Well, Daddy

Daddy's dying. Part of me is, too. He's always been in my life. Always present. I've always known I was loved. Does he know he is? I sit beside him, studying his deep blue eyes. Does he see me? Does he hear me say, "I love you, Daddy."  What's going on his mind? Always a man of few words, I often wished he would--or could-- talk more. Share his thoughts and feelings. Tell his own history and his own dreams. Give me advice and tell me what to do (though I've always been one to make up my own mind!). Though he could tell of those who came before him,  he rarely spoke of himself. For reasons unknown, that telling did not come easy. More importantly, I heard him say and saw him live the mantra, "I love you."

I imagined he'd live to a hundred. I thought  he'd  keep gardening, keep hiking, keep swimming, keep going to the beach, keep basking in the beauty around, keep cooking and cleaning and mowing lawns, keep riding bikes, keep taking pictures, keep trying new things and learning and smiling, keep going to graduations and weddings and celebrating his family as he always did. I thought he'd keep on keeping on as he always had. He's only 89! (not really very old)!

 Oh, some will say, "He lived a good life." They're right, and this is immensely comforting. Others will say, "At last! he's not suffering anymore." They're right. Others will say, "He lived a long life." Yes, by the standards of this earth, he lived longer than most. I don't how I thought it would happen, his leaving. I didn't imagine we'd  be waiting  day after day, wondering when. Some days I feel guilty that I feel so sad. I got to see you grow old. You saw your children have children, and theirs have children. Others have known the loss of father much too early, as mere children or young(er) adults. Tears have flowed on such occasions, and I've felt a taste of the horrific pain of tragic loss.  Grand exits, some of these good byes, as tears gush, stories are told, and dreams evaporate. Some have never known a Daddy's love, ever. I only imagine such pain, never having known it first hand, but up too close in the lives of some I love. I know I've been so richly blessed for reasons not of my choosing, with having a Daddy who has loved me well. I am humbled. Still I wonder, who will cry? Who will miss him?  Oh, there will be some--- his children and grandchildren and brother and sisters and nieces and nephews and a few remaining friends. We will share stories and laugh together at the remembering, and thank God for a truly good man who blessed our lives. Then we will go to sleep that night and wake up in the morning and begin again. Will it be a relief? Undoubtedly. Will it be easy? Unequivocally, No.

The last words I heard were a soft "ouch ouch ouch" as I moved him a few days ago. Now I only hear his shallow breathing. Daddy, are you hurting? What can I do?  I'm not ready to say good bye. Do I have to? I really want you to sleep in peace, if only for tonight. We'll deal with tomorrow when it comes. How can I make you comfortable?

This has been an unexpected journey these past few years. I'd never given thought that my wise, intelligent parents could succumb to Alzheimers Disease, the label that was given their very differing forms of dementia.  Daddy and Mom came to live in our home nearly two years ago when it became apparent they couldn't live on their own. They gracefully moved out of their home with little protest, though they continued to talk about their "home on the hill." Occasionally I would drive them by, to see the rhododendrons and camelias and variety of trees that Daddy had  carefully chosen, planted and tended in their twelve years "on the hill." Eventually they rarely spoke of it, except in a flash of passing memory.

Daddy loves Mom. Mom loves Daddy, I'm sure.  65 years together. I've often peaked in when they're asleep, and seen their heads bumped up to each other. They sit each in their own recliner, hands bridging the space between. They've had a language all their own. They've spent hours pouring over a pictorial chronicle of their history designed and written by grandson Joseph, "Conversations with my Grandparents. Bob And Betty Becraft." We always figured Mom would go first. She was the one with the "health issues." She seems to have regained the strength of a second childhood. The great paradoxes of life! How will she manage sleeping alone? Will she be afraid? Will she just not remember (doubtfully!)? What will she do without him by her side. They're tied at the hip, still.

 A couple months ago my modest mother got jealous of another woman. Katrina, devoted caregiver, was helping Daddy get dressed as Mom indignantly protested. "What are you doing? It's not appropriate!" Mom kept pacing the hallway and trying to intercept the process. Her ultimate objection came when she walked in, pulled up her top, and waggled her breasts,  "What do you think of these, Mr. B, what do you think of these?" Daddy flashed the biggest grin ever as their eyes locked. Katrina quietly left the room for several minutes. Mom has always staked her position clearly. Some things the mind never forgets. They belong to each other. Daddy's loyalty and love has been without question--ever. My heart aches as I think of how one will survive the loss of the other. I sometimes think that as Daddy saw Mom slip into her long good bye, he joined her journey.

Sometimes I worry as I tell a story such as I just told that I'm being disrespectful to the parents I once knew. Am I? Should I delete such stories from their history? What would they want if they were in their "right" minds and could answer my question?  I don't know. One thing I  know is that I have to find things to laugh about, or I'd cry a lot. Please, Daddy, forgive me if I'm wrong (You, too Mom).

Our nightly bedtime ritual has included  singing  "Tis love that makes us happy, Tis love that smooths the way. It helps us mind, it keeps us kind, to others every day. God is love. We're His little children. God is love. We would be like Him. Tis love that makes us happy. Tis love that smooths the way. It helps us mind. It keeps us kind, to others every day." Daddy, though you haven't been able to talk, you've been able to sing along until a couple of weeks ago. I remember you singing this when I was a small child. I miss hearing you. I treasure this memory. I can't wait to hear you sing again!

As I think of these past couple of years,  I wonder what more I could have done. How could I have made life easier, more filled with joy? Have I been too busy to just sit and "be" with you? Have I been  too busy with my "important stuff." Sometimes, I think"yes." I'm sorry. I asked you awhile back if you knew I loved you, and you nodded your head. I needed that. Thank you. What did you need?

Anyway, it's late tonight. I must try to sleep. Will you rally again, Daddy? I don't know. It doesn't look like you have the energy. How much longer? A day, week, or even months? I don't know. Hospice will be here tomorrow. I'll see what they say.

Daddy, I really don't want you to leave. I want to hold on and not let you slip away.... I said you were dying. And it's true. I said that part of me is dying, too, and it's true. because you are so much a part of me, or I of you... however it works for  child and parent, or parent and child.  I can hardly bear it. Then I remember. I'm living, as are your other children, and your grandchildren, and their children, and  a host of others whose lives you have touched in the ways that matter. You've loved well, and that ultimately is all that matters. Your legacy lives on. I will love you forever. We'll take care of Mom. It's okay. I'll see you in the Morning. Sleep well.

Sue