I thought I knew about love.
I thought I knew about loss.
I did. And I didn’t.
What I am feeling now, experiencing now, is something I didn’t know about. This kind of love requires more than I knew I had in me to give.
We are having a long goodbye. Dad is so near to the end that every time he wakes, his disappointment is almost palpable. The awake times are lessening but the disappointment grows.
He has said goodbye to everyone, some of us more than once. We have begun to turn away visitors and well-wishers. No one, least of all Dad, has the strength for another goodbye.
Love at the end looks and feels different.
It is holding Dad’s hand in yours and then struggling to commit that picture to memory, to burn it into your consciousness, so you never forget; never forget the feel of his soft, warm skin, his hand curled gently around yours.
It is laying close beside him, stroking his arm and listening to his breathing, holding your own while you wait anxiously between his lengthening pauses. You hope and pray for another breath, conflicted by your hope and prayer that, please God, grant Dad’s prayer and let it be his last.
It is holding a cup near, so Dad can sip from a straw and then turning away so he won’t see the sorrow on your face because the effort of drinking is so taxing for him.
It is also finding a bag of fresh muffins hanging on the door, left by a neighbour who wants to help and doesn’t know what else to do. It is deliveries of lemon loaf, cut vegetables, and meat and cheese.
Love at the end comes in countless phone calls, offers of support…if you need anything at all…
It is sitting and going through old photo albums, sharing your memories, laughing, crying, and laughing some more.
It is watching our mother struggle with her own goodbyes, her own conflicted emotions, and her determination to fulfill Dad’s wish of dying at home.
It is realizing that you really have come full circle to where you are the strength your father needs, but no longer has; that you are the care giver, doing for him what he can no longer do for himself.
It is emotional transparency where there is no desire to hide your feelings. It is honest, heartfelt words about our true feelings; feelings we always knew were there, but didn’t always put into words.
It is finding a way to put yourself aside, not thinking of your own comfort, but only that of the one you love.
It is bone-weariness at times and emotional exhaustion.
It is a heart so full, the only way to stop it from bursting is to relieve the pressure with more tears, a seemingly bottomless well of tears.
I thought I knew about love.
Love can be a jagged knife tearing at your very heart, in times like these. I’m praying for you.
When our friend and former pastor was dying, several of us got together to pray with and worship around his bedside. While in the midst of worship and prayer, I saw Harry as if he were in a cocoon, a chrysalis like a butterfly’s. As he progressed along the path to the end, that chrysalis got tighter and more uncomfortable, causing Harry to struggle to break free of it. When he finally DID burst forth, it was with new multicolored wings like a butterfly shaped floaty cloak, and the word I got as he burst forth into this new state of being, was JOY. I hope that this comforts and encourages you. Your father is leaving this temporary ‘tent’ to receive the much better eternal body which will never die, and with which he will more fully enter into an amazing JOY FILLED eternity. He will see Jesus face to face!
Pray with him, Cathy. Praise God over his life, and worship with him even in this hour of goodbyes. It will comfort him. Because he will be free soon.
You are a GOOD DAUGHTER, Cathy. You are ‘being’ love to your mom and your dad. And I know you are very grateful for the parents God graced you with.
Love, Mickey
Praying for you all!!! Have been there & can concur with some of your feelings.
Diane
Cathy I have never met you but I feel like I know you. Your sis is right…you are an amazing writer. I met your mum and dad very briefly and every day at work when I walk by Karen’s desk, I see a fabulous picture of them on her filing cabinet. They are sitting on the end of a bench, holding hands and the love they feel for each other is so apparent. I’m so very sad for you and your family. Please know that my thoughts are with you. Fondly. Michelle Keagan
Hugs Cathy,
I didn’t understand how weeping was different from crying, but since my mom died 10 years ago…I find myself now just leaking water down my face, the pressure of the ‘bottomless well of tears’ just spilling out.
People often don’t know what to say when giving condolences in person, so they tell you stories of people they know who have died…and I just wanted them to tell me stories about my Mom.
So Cathy, please tell me a story you remember about your dad…and I hope the friends and family that surround you tell you more stories they hold in their hearts of him and their relationships with him.
Cathy, so sorry you are having to deal with such heart wrenching pain of loosing someone so dear to you.
When my Dad died I had just had Wendy and was 1000 miles away from him. I never got to say goodbye and that has always left an empty spot in my heart. Love your dad and hold him as long as you can and know that he feels your love. May he go peacefully to be with God.
Love you and wish I could help in some way.