a gentle grief

 My dad died yesterday. 

It is finally done. For over two years, he has battled the cancer in his body, with my mom at his side. I remember that phone call, when he said, "I have something to tell you. You need to sit down." I foolishly thought that he was going to tell me that he was planning a visit, that I could finally take him to see all the places on the island that made me think of him. I could show him the Bonsai Pipeline and he could tell me surfing stories. I could take him on hikes and share the magic that I've found at summits and peaks. He and my mom would love on my kids and I would cook for them both. Instead, he said, "I have colon cancer." The world dropped away and I remember, my whole body went cold. I heard Death laugh. When he told me the diagnosis, so many things raced through my mind. I saw suffering and pain. I saw the end. I did not see hope. My dad was healthy and strong. His dad, my grandpa, lived until his late 90s, building ramps for the disabled, driving his tractor, tending his gardens. My grandma, his mother, is still alive, even now. My dad came from good stock. There was no reason to expect that he wouldn't be around to see my children's children. The diagnosis did not make sense. 

Over the past two years, I have both yearned for and dreaded phone calls. He tried everything humanly possible to rid his body of the cancer that spread to rectum, metastasized to his skin. Chemo, supplements, dietary restrictions, clean eating, essential oils, DMSO, CBD. He deteriorated and wasn't able to bike anymore. He still maintained the house, the expansive gardens, still worked in his shop, making beautiful and useful things. He began to experience subcutaneous bleeding and horrific swelling in his extremities. Getting around became difficult, but not impossible. He had good days and bad days, and I heard hope, but I didn't feel hope, only fear. 

Then, three weeks ago, things changed. He couldn't breathe. He started blacking out. Congestive heart failure. This was the inevitable. Death failed to take him with the cancer, but his appointment still stood and must be kept. For the past three weeks, I have lived in a state of hyper vigilance that I have not experienced since Sam was an infant, and I listened for every sound, every murmur. I know that feeling, when Death is close and lurking and, as a human, you cannot be stronger or smarter, but you are vigilant. Waiting. Constantly wired and buzzing, alert for the next development. Every phone call, every text, sent me diving for my phone. I checked my email every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes or less, depending on the time of day. I constantly did the math, "It's five hours later where they are, what time is it? What are they doing?" For two weeks, I have gotten out of bed in the morning with what feels like a alcohol free hangover, my head heavy and my stomach a little sick, overwhelmed by dread. 

It wasn't just the suffering that my dad was experiencing, it was the knowledge that my mother was suffering alongside him, dying for love of him, trying everything to help and make him better. From the beginning, I prayed for mercy, that my dad would not be cursed with the fate of Job. I've read that story so many times, and I saw it being relived in my father, but without the hope of earthly restoration and a happy ending. My prayer was a plea, "Please. Please don't make him suffer. He is the best man I've ever known and he doesn't deserve this. Mercy. Grant him mercy." But then, it went on too long and I saw that it was too late for my prayer to be granted. The suffering had gone too deep. We passed the point of mercy and grace. His spirit stayed strong, his mind held steady. But his body was giving up, fighting against life. He started having seizures. My brother stepped in and became my mom's rock, lifting and assisting my dad because she could not. Hospice was called in. My morning headaches increased. The hyper vigilance intensified. It was coming. Come soon, but also, don't come- spare us. Let us keep him. Take him, make the suffering stop. Leave him alone, we don't want him to go. This state of the in-between. My dad told my mom that he felt like he was, "in the middle." His mind and spirit were here but his body was failing rapidly. 

I have been mourning this for two years. I have been angry, but primarily heartbroken. The phone calls with my mom, where she is so positive but the news is so bad. I am an empath. This is a blessing and a curse. The physical pain I would feel when I hung up from a phone call, taking on their pain and stress, but unable to effect anything, I can't even begin to adequately explain. This strain has stretched me thin, until I feel transparent, pulled apart by the hurt that they felt and that I feel. I've had to push it down, these past several weeks, just to keep myself moving and functioning. The loss of my grandmother last weekend broke me. I wasn't expecting to have to let her go, lose her presence on this earth. I wasn't prepared. I was already stretched so thin, I snapped under the additional strain. 

This week has been a conscious nightmare. The seizures increased in frequency, breathing became labored and painful, skin began to turn grey. Through it all, my dad never lost his dignity, never lost who he was. Through it all, my mom was there, and that hurt me. She carried so much and she is so small. My tiny mother, with this enormous burden that no human is equipped to bear. She is truly a warrior, bound by humility and borne up by her faith. 

On Saturday morning, I had planned a 20 mile run. I intended to run a route that would keep me in a service area the whole time, so that I wouldn't miss any phone calls or updates. I woke up feeling so heavy, like my body had lead running through my veins instead of blood. I had a tension headache that was worse than any I've ever experienced. I had decided the day before to shut down my social media and turn off my notifications. Everything seemed too loud, too noisy. I got up and took the dog for a walk. Usually my morning headache alleviates during these walks. Being outside in the fresh air, surrounded by all the green typically clears my mind and eases the pressure. But this morning, the pressure increased. I was irritated with cars and trucks that drove by in my quiet neighborhood, because their motors were obnoxiously loud, too much noise. I got home, and got ready to head out to run, laid out my clothes and stood looking at them. My legs said yes but my head felt detached from my body. So I lay down for just a minute, closed my eyes. Then my phone rang. My mom told me, "We think he's gone."

I called my other brother, told him to call her. My mom, myself, and my two brothers were together, joined over thousands of miles via cell phones and landlines. We waited, as she tried to contact hospice. We stayed with her. He was gone, finally free. 

At some point, through the tears, I realized- my headache was gone. It has not returned.  

I have mourned this for two years. I mourned the pain, the suffering, the impending loss. I mourned what this was doing to my mom. I mourned not being there to share this burden. 

Now I am free to mourn the loss of who my dad was. This is a pure grief, and it is mostly gentle. I mourn that my mom is alone, that she has lost her best friend, her confidant, her partner. 

I will write about my dad. I will write about how he was funny and brilliant, how he researched everything, almost to an irritating degree. (I just want a CD player boom box, Dad. Do we HAVE to learn how they are made before we buy one?) I will write about how he made swing-sets and tree houses, coached soccer and tennis, played baseball with my brothers, took me to play tennis and bought us ice cream afterwards. I will write about his love for God and how he touched the lives of every single person he met, how his life itself was a ministry, even up until his final day. I will write about the sculptures he made out of wood, turning hard blocks into soft butter with his lathe, turning and turning and shaping, until something hard and rough became something soft, smooth, and beautiful. The whole house that he tore down to the bones and studs, meticulously re-crafted, over 30 years, remodeling and customizing, until it was exactly right for him and my mom. I will write about his dad jokes and tickle fights and how he wouldn't let anyone else put the lights on the Christmas tree. We would drink hot chocolate out of the Christmas mugs and wait, while he assembled the tree and strung the lights, listening to Christmas music, impatient to hang the ornaments. I will write about these things.

But not today. 

I am sad. I am sad that he is gone. I am sad that my mom is without him. He leaves a empty space that no one can fill. I am sad that my kids will grow up without him. I am sad for myself, that I am here, far away, mourning this alone. The shock of that hits me frequently, and will continue to do so. This mourning is a peaceful mourning, free of agony, free of dread. I truly believe that he is in Heaven, that he is in a place of joy and reward. This is not a cold and broken hallelujah anymore. This is a warm sadness, a grief that acknowledges great loss, but it is no longer malevolent. 

I miss him. I love him always. I do not wish him back, to the suffering that his life had become. Death is swallowed up in victory. Death only has power when we are alive. So in the end, my dad won. Death caught him, but my dad broke free. There is release. There is relief. There is joy. And always, there is love.