I am so glad I have this picture. It was taken on November 3rd 2024 at the All Saints Luncheon at Grace Calvary. The tradition is to put flowers on all the graves at the cemetery to honor those who have gone before us. Dad wanted to make sure Mom’s grave had plenty of flowers on it. It had been just a few months without her. He seemed to be doing as well as could be expected. Trying to keep moving forward with life, but we all knew he was hurting. We all were. It was hard to watch him struggle with placing those flowers. From a distance, I could see him talk to her. I wished I could hear his words, but it was an intimate moment that had me in a puddle.
So, I took a picture. It told me everything I needed to know about his pain. His slumped shoulders, his bowed head. He looked overwhelmed in that moment, but he made it through. We went to the luncheon, and he was greeted by old friends. It perked him up to see so many who took the time to give their condolences. I took some pictures of the words that were read, and some shots of us smiling. Holding each other up. Supporting one another and honoring Mom. It was a special day. I had no idea that in 10 days Dad would be gone.
Life catches us off guard sometimes. I must say this particular event stunned me into silence. I’m still struggling to find my words again. It was surreal. Traumatic. Unbelievable. Shocking. It still is when I think about it for too long. He is so healthy in these pictures. He looks good considering it had only been 3 months since Mom died. Then all of a sudden, while traveling, he took a random fall. Which led to a procedure to stop the internal bleeding in his kidney. Which led to a complication. Which led to a ventilator. Which led to the end. A whirlwind. A hurricane. An earthquake. A Tsunami. All of the things that turn lives upside down…all at once it seemed. The juxtaposition from the slow loss of Mom to the quick loss of Dad caused emotional whiplash. Shattering of hearts that were already shattered. Pulverized into dust it felt.
And Dad was aware of all of it. He was as stunned as we were. He rolled his eyes as if he was in disbelief that this happened. When the breathing tube couldn’t come out, he wrote on is board, “What’s the hold up?” He did everything they asked of him to get his lungs stronger. He wanted to continue his trip. When it became clear that wasn’t an option, he wanted to get back to Georgia, to his doctors, and his apartment.
He was a fighter. Until he wasn’t. Once he knew his strength was not going to return, that he would need assistance to live, he turned off the fight. He stayed here long enough to allow all the grandkids to say their goodbyes. He let us take turns telling him how much we loved him. He smiled. Even though we couldn’t see his mouth, you could tell from his eyes he heard every word. He squeezed our hands. He let us have our moments. And then when we left the room, he was gone in 10 minutes. Back with Mom. Keeping his promise to never be apart at the holidays.
He always said he was just going to drop one day and be gone. We all figured a heart attack would get him, since his heart was held together by stints and duct tape. Ha! I even said to him, “You have always said you would just drop, but I don’t think this is what you had in mind.” He just shook his head and seemed to say, “This is crazy isn’t it?” But if he could choose a way to go, it would be fast. Instantly even. I think he thought the time he had in the hospital was taking forever, even though it was just a few days.
The good part, if there is such a thing, is that we clearly knew his wishes. He had made it all abundantly clear, over and over again. In conversations and in writing. Do not prolong. Do not leave me hooked up to machines. Do not let me linger. Our decisions, on this day 2 years ago, were really his. We just had to be his voice. The hardest thing we have ever done was to say do not put the tube back in once they took it out and it was clear his lungs were not ready, even though he had passed the weaning trials.
When Melinda told him we had gone to comfort care, he nodded his agreement. When they brought his morphine to keep him comfortable, he did a happy dance. We told him all the machines were off and it was up to him. He was in control and to go when it was time. He waited for us all to leave the room. Then he was gone.
I miss him so badly it hurts. We had been inseparable for 7 years of Mom’s care. Talking daily. His departure left a hole that cannot be filled by anyone else. My heart isn’t as raw as it was the first year. The memories of this day are not up front all the time anymore. There are many more good memories that pop up seemingly out of nowhere. I am taking this evening to listen to old voicemails, to watch little videos we took with he and Mom, to look through the pictures, to watch Hallmark movies (his favorite), and anything else I can do to bring him near. He has sent some winks.
He is okay. More than okay. I am okay. Still getting my footing as I realize that time doesn’t exactly make the pain fade. It is still intense on some days and less so on others. Today is an intense one, but grandkid therapy helped quite a bit today. I only wish he could have gotten to know the boys. I see so much of his mischievousness in them and that makes me laugh. My heart is hurting, but it is full because life is good and Dad is one of the reasons.
