Dealing with Grief part four
IN THE EVENING THE SUN GOES DOWN, NO MORE WORK AND NO MORE PLAY,
ENDED IS THE LOVELY DAY
My dad died five days after we returned home. One month after my mum-in-law. Two days after the news he was dying. One week after I last hugged him, kissed his bearded face, and told him I loved him. Told him I’d see him again at the end of April. Did he give me one of his usual jocular replies? ‘Not if I see you first,’ ‘I won’t be here, I’m off,’ ‘So soon?’ No, he didn’t. He just told me he loved me.
My heart squeezes a little at this memory and there is a prickling from behind my eyes. And a smile. How lucky I am to have spent so much time with him in his last five months. In the last few years.
In some ways, I’ve been closer to my dad these past five months than ever before. He’s expressed surprise and joy at my arrival and sadness when I’ve left him. He’s tried to bribe me to come back more often, even when I saw him every other day. He’s cried in my arms, been depressed, been happy, joked, we’ve cried together, laughed, and reminisced with a regular intensity. Not once or twice a year, but twice or three times a week. Sometimes daily. We shared the wonderful moment when he met his French great grandchildren, the twins, for the first and only time. He chatted and played with them, and in that moment, I saw pure joy and pride in his face and body.
When I created this Art Therapy page, I was beginning to separate all my griefs, my husband’s grief, my two son’s, my mum’s, my sister’s, the grief I cannot speak of, and I know looking back on that week, that my grief for my dad was, is, the most comfortable. I know that sounds weird, but I don’t know how else to describe it. He was an old man and he’d done so much that he’d wanted to in his life, and he chose to let go before he lost all his dignity. That’s a gift. How can I be sad when I know his life would’ve become harder for him. He lay on his bed and let go with my mum in the room, telling him how much we all loved him. How lovely. He chose well.
And yet I felt guilty when I smiled at a memory, a photo, a video. No deep joy or happiness, but no sadness, not numb, just a gentle smile.
Had I grieved for him when I saw him losing weight and becoming frailer, when I recognised what I’d seen in a dying woman, my mum-in-law? Did I grieve when I was clearing his house of all his memories and felt like I was physically doing to his home what that sneaky disease Alzheimer was doing to his brain? I had a few tears and one day wailed ‘Sorry Dad, for taking you away from all you knew, and your dog too.’ I probably had, but so much was mixed together into the darkness and despair triggered by the wrong words at the wrong time, and oh boy, is it hard to clamber out of this pit. I’ve probably been slow grieving for my dad for years as the decline became more and more obvious.
I’m glad my grief for my dad is clear in my mind now, and it consists of happiness, not sorrow.
Words Behind the Art
Shock passing. Grief untangling. Happy dad is no longer confused, worried, forgetful. His once intense Mensa-level brain fuzzy and holey, disintegrating. I’ve mourned him for years. Why be sad now? He’s at peace, at rest, no more embarrassment at loss of bodily functions, no more struggling to remember a face or an event, both past and recent. I’ve nourished, hugged, laughed, cried with him. Guilt popping up while clearing the house. He was deeply loved and cared for in the home. Unconditional acceptance for who he was then and there. No unrealistic expectations. How can I be sad when I’ve seen him on this journey and know he’s reached the end. Knowing his family still. I SHALL NOT feel guilt for not crying. I shall smile at the memories as I create this page.
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