I still have a teenager at home. I live in a rural community and have a 30 mile commute to work. My husband drives a semi-truck over the road and all the chores of home ownership fall on my shoulders. How could I possibly fit one more thing on my heaping-full plate? Still, somebody had to take care of my father.
At 84 years old and having had the benefit of my mother’s all encompassing care for 61 years of marriage, Dad didn’t know how to turn on the oven. He couldn’t operate a washing machine or dishwasher, and beyond a pan fried steak, eggs, toast and heating his coffee in the microwave, he didn’t have a clue about cooking.
“I’m staying in my home,” he declared. “I’m not going to live with anybody and I’m not moving into a senior apartment. I’m going to learn to be independent.” And he did just that. At first, I could hardly believe it, but with each newly acquired skill, I grew more and more proud of my father – and amazed at his resilience.
In the beginning I was at his house every day, either before or after work. I asked him if he wanted me to do his laundry. He answered “No thank you. I just did a load yesterday.” I showed him how to fry bacon in Mom’s George Foreman grill. My husband, a bachelor for 14 years before we married, gave him the recipe for crock pot pork chops.
Dad had stopped driving more than 15 years ago, turning the wheel over to Mom. Before her death, they still made the 60 mile round trip into town three times a week. I wondered how he’d manage with me taking him only once a week. Then one spring day, after all the snow had melted, my father backed the car out of the garage and drove to town by himself. A wide grin spread across his face when, the next day, he told me he thought he did okay.
I worried at first, but accepted that he was in his right mind and still capable of making his own decisions. Often after that, he’d call me at work to say he was coming to town and asked me to join him for lunch. Dad and I settled into a comfortable routine. I called to check on him frequently and visited him at least three times a week. He looked forward to home cooked Sunday dinner at my house as much for the food as for the change of scenery.
Still, the weight of my mother’s words weighed heavy on my shoulders. In her last years she was adamant about never leaving him alone. I felt she would be angry with me for neglecting him. At first I tried to bully my sister into helping out, demanding that she make the 6 hour trip home more often. I encouraged my Dad to visit my brother in Texas, get away from the cold and gray Wisconsin winter.
In April, he finally got on the plane, but he stayed in Texas only three days. I think he was trying get away from the loneliness he felt at home, their home, where every room, every wall, every knick-knack and painting was imprinted with the memory of my mother. But the loneliness followed him so he returned. I knew then there would be no extended visits to give me a break.
I was the child who never moved away. There were more demands on me than on my siblings. I didn’t always get along with my parents. I know there were times they must have been fed up with me as well, but I was there. Many times I envied my sister and brother who lived a life separate from our parents. I wanted that freedom now more than ever.I was so busy resenting my brother and sister, that I nearly missed the shift taking place between my father and I.
Always hungry for a hot meal, Dad became one of those widowers who attend the funerals of those he knew even remotely, and he always asked me to accompany him. I joked with my husband that my new social life consisted of eating funeral meatballs with dad. I tried not to be embarrassed when he was ready to leave as soon as he’d filled his belly.
I sat on the porch swing with him, waved hello to passing neighbors and tried to teach him how to care for mother’s gardens. I cooked for him and, sometimes, he cooked for me. I began to truly enjoy my time with him. Then one day I realized that I was no longer just his daughter. I had become my father’s friend and he had become mine. All at once, any resentment I felt over my brother and sister’s perceived freedom melted away. Instead I felt sorry that they would never know this side of their father.
Spring finally turned to summer and summer faded into fall. I stopped worrying about the statistics that told me widows and widowers often die soon after their spouses. And then, just when I thought some of his loneliness was subsiding and he was looking ahead again, just when I thought he’d be around for a while longer (after all his own father lived into his 90’s), my father died. Too soon after I’d decided to let go of all my resentment and cherish the time I had with my father, he was gone.
I’d spoken with him just the night before. I had the next day off, the forecast predicted a warm autumn day and we made plans to button up his yard for winter. I found him lying on his back, his feet at my mother’s potting shed with the door ajar. He was cold, not breathing. I called 9-1-1 and then went back out to hold his hand. I laid my head on his chest and cried. When the paramedics arrived they went though the motions, but we all knew my father was dead.
With the death of my mother, I lost the one person in the world with whom I shared a body, the person who gave birth to me, nurtured me and taught me everything I know about being a woman, wife and mother. With my father’s death came the loss of the one person who always supported me, always protected me. The person, who instilled in me the values I still hold true today, honesty, fairness, hard work and duty.
It’s been a year of death for me, a year of sorrow that penetrated my very bones, but it’s also been a year of life, of learning to be grateful for what I have instead of resenting what I don’t have. A year of learning that love is all about what you do and not at all about what you say. And that life is about what’s happening right now, not tomorrow, next week or next year.
I will miss my parents forever. I find some measure of comfort in believing that they are together again, that my father isn’t lonely anymore. And whenever my loss starts hurting too much I try to remember that in their life, and in their dying, they gave me everything I will ever need to survive.
