Death is sad - Kelley McCabe

Death is sad, but like everything else there is something to be learned.

First is the clear reminder of just how short life really is (something I don’t think about too often) and how important it is to live and enjoy each day and to let the “little things” go. The second is how consistently (and constantly) things are changing.

My husband’s father, Clifford Senior, is dying… the nurse says in the next day or two. Just two weeks ago Cliff and I began a new life when he married me; this week we are saying good-bye to his dad… and I’m struck by the ongoing circle of life: “When one door closes another door opens…”
I worked for a time as a hospice volunteer and Cliff and I have often talked about how, in the end, nothing is important except relationships. On their deathbeds, people no longer care about the homes they lived in, the vacations they took, the titles or money they earned – in the end they are surrounded by the pictures of their loved ones (or the loved ones, themselves, if they are lucky). Now we are sitting with Dad in his final days. He has simply a bed, a nightshirt, a blanket… and he is surrounded by pictures of the people who were meaningful in his life and, luckily, by his very loving wife, children, family members and friends.

Cliff’s dad, “Red” – the nickname he earned for his once striking red hair – is much beloved for his kindness, generosity and willingness to extend a helping hand. Cliff tells me almost every one of Red’s brothers and sisters (there were 6 of them) lived with Cliff’s family at some point when they were in some kind of difficulty… and Red already had a home filled with 5 of his own children and his wife, Shirley. Now there is a constant stream of visitors coming to say their good-byes… all of which Red seems largely unaware of as he lays in his hospital bed in the living room.

Cliff, his siblings, and Mom are all quite sad as would be expected. As a relative newcomer, it is a little easier for me to observe what is happening. Yesterday I asked Cliff, “When you think of your father, and you feel sad about his dying, what are you thinking? How do you envision him?” Cliff thought for a moment, then said he’s thinking of his father as he was in his 40’s and 50’s – when Red was funny, full of life, and always ready to help a friend or neighbor.

I’ve known Dad for only a year; Red and Shirley lived with Cliff for three months last winter and I had the opportunity to spend quite a bit of time with Dad. During that time I could see without a doubt that he was funny and generous. But he was also an old man who moved slowly, whose right arm was paralyzed, who frequently couldn’t remember words or forgot what he was talking about… Dad suffers from senile dementia and it was already taking its toll. During those three months we all frequently fretted that Dad couldn’t be roused from bed in the morning, that he did not want to walk even to the end of the driveway, that he was angry and upset his body was betraying him.
So yesterday Cliff and I talked about Cliff’s image of Dad, frozen in time from decades past… and how it is this past “Dad” Cliff is mourning. The “Dad” in Cliff’s mind is a dad who actually departed years and years ago. Observing from my more objective vantage point, I can clearly see Cliff’s illusion and it reminds me of the many illusions I live with, the things I think of in a certain static, unexamined way… that really are no longer true.

I’ve also had a chance to reflect on the fact we are not losing Dad… or at least not entirely. I hear the grandchildren repeating Dad’s favorite expressions, I look at Cliff and I see the younger “Dad” Cliff holds in his mind (and that I can see in the old pictures). I see Dad in the way Cliff reaches out to comfort his mother and siblings. I hear Dad in Cliff’s concern for getting the grandchildren stranded at college home for the funeral. Cliff has done the things Dad would have done under these circumstances: fixed broken pipes, purchased and installed a dispenser for filtered water, seen to funeral arrangements. In Cliff I can still see Dad’s gestures, his facial expressions, and his big heart. In Mom, I hear Dad’s stories and his pragmatic wisdom. All of us, it seems, carry on an essential part of Dad. We aren’t losing Dad, but certainly he is transformed.

The person we think of as “Dad” was funny and vibrant, capable of long walks and hard work. He liked to play catch with the dog, go boating, and spend time with the grandchildren. He liked to tease us and his sparkling blue eyes always seemed to hold some mischief… his generous hand was ever at the ready to offer assistance. Dad hasn’t been any of these things in quite some time - so in that sense we’ve already lost him. The fact that his body will die may be the catalyst that makes us aware of this loss - but the fact is, the Dad we think of is already gone…

Which makes me wonder how much of what I carry with me as my “reality” is actually here – and how much is really a part of the past…