Buried Dad today
Buried Dad today
We buried my father's ashes today. My brother and I lowered the container into the ground.
Life doesn't go the way we plan or even how we might reasonably expect based on all available evidence. Mom's the one whose health has worried us, so it was a huge shock when I picked up the phone a year ago yesterday to hear my brother say "Dad died." He went to bed, went to sleep and died. He was 79. He and Mom both willed their bodies to a medical school, which -- per agreement -- returned his ashes after the body served its purpose.
He was justifiably well-loved in the small rural place that was home for most of his life. He was a good man. An imperfect man. He drank too much for a long time before going cold-turkey 20-some years ago. And yet, 90 percent (or more) of my memories are good. I took a lot of inspiration from him, though we didn't discuss it. His own father was a useless drunk, a man he could never respect. I think that's why he worked so hard at being a good father. He was smart, talented and kind. At his memorial, so many people commented on how funny he was and rightfully so. Dad could also be a big grumbler, which used to bug me unless we were jointly grousing about our shared political views. He was a JFK man.
I loved him very much.
It's a strange thing to experience grief in sobriety. I was 9.5 months sober when Dad died. While I feel confident in saying that I am much, much healthier in body and spirit than I have been in years, I'm uncertain about how well I've handled losing Dad.
Some of it is the sheer shock. Some of it, though, is that I think I erected a shell around myself early in recovery to steel myself for the challenges that awaited. I'm afraid, sometimes, that the shell has overtaken me. I've not had a huge cry in sobriety, before or after Dad. I think I need to, but I cannot summon it. I cannot seem to crack the shell.
Similarly, at least I think, is the fear of knowing the small circle of people for whom the job description of life includes loving me -- and me loving them -- has grown even smaller. One of the essential roots under my tree is gone and life's transitions are underway. My mother, who is very frail, has moved in with my brother and his family. The home my parents purchased a year before my birth is empty, with a "for sale" sign out front. I do have some good friends. And I'm generally very comfortable in my own company. But I'm lonely.
Truth be told, some of it is guilt. I thought something was a little "off' with Dad in the last couple years of his life, though my brother and mother insist otherwise. (A couple other relatives and friends have agreed.) My father feared the fate that fell on others, including a dear friend who spent the last 10 years of his life not even knowing his own name. Most of my friends now have lost at least one parent, many of them experiencing the "long goodbye" of Alzheimer's. I feared that as much as Dad. I'm having a hard time processing the relief that comes with knowing he didn't experience that and I didn't, either.
Dad absolutely loved planting flowers. Very few perennials. Mostly annuals -- I think he liked the yearly ritual of creating beauty in his world. On his last day, he practiced his tuba, had coffee with his friends and planted his flowers. I take great comfort in that.
Life doesn't go the way we plan or even how we might reasonably expect based on all available evidence. Mom's the one whose health has worried us, so it was a huge shock when I picked up the phone a year ago yesterday to hear my brother say "Dad died." He went to bed, went to sleep and died. He was 79. He and Mom both willed their bodies to a medical school, which -- per agreement -- returned his ashes after the body served its purpose.
He was justifiably well-loved in the small rural place that was home for most of his life. He was a good man. An imperfect man. He drank too much for a long time before going cold-turkey 20-some years ago. And yet, 90 percent (or more) of my memories are good. I took a lot of inspiration from him, though we didn't discuss it. His own father was a useless drunk, a man he could never respect. I think that's why he worked so hard at being a good father. He was smart, talented and kind. At his memorial, so many people commented on how funny he was and rightfully so. Dad could also be a big grumbler, which used to bug me unless we were jointly grousing about our shared political views. He was a JFK man.
I loved him very much.
It's a strange thing to experience grief in sobriety. I was 9.5 months sober when Dad died. While I feel confident in saying that I am much, much healthier in body and spirit than I have been in years, I'm uncertain about how well I've handled losing Dad.
Some of it is the sheer shock. Some of it, though, is that I think I erected a shell around myself early in recovery to steel myself for the challenges that awaited. I'm afraid, sometimes, that the shell has overtaken me. I've not had a huge cry in sobriety, before or after Dad. I think I need to, but I cannot summon it. I cannot seem to crack the shell.
Similarly, at least I think, is the fear of knowing the small circle of people for whom the job description of life includes loving me -- and me loving them -- has grown even smaller. One of the essential roots under my tree is gone and life's transitions are underway. My mother, who is very frail, has moved in with my brother and his family. The home my parents purchased a year before my birth is empty, with a "for sale" sign out front. I do have some good friends. And I'm generally very comfortable in my own company. But I'm lonely.
Truth be told, some of it is guilt. I thought something was a little "off' with Dad in the last couple years of his life, though my brother and mother insist otherwise. (A couple other relatives and friends have agreed.) My father feared the fate that fell on others, including a dear friend who spent the last 10 years of his life not even knowing his own name. Most of my friends now have lost at least one parent, many of them experiencing the "long goodbye" of Alzheimer's. I feared that as much as Dad. I'm having a hard time processing the relief that comes with knowing he didn't experience that and I didn't, either.
Dad absolutely loved planting flowers. Very few perennials. Mostly annuals -- I think he liked the yearly ritual of creating beauty in his world. On his last day, he practiced his tuba, had coffee with his friends and planted his flowers. I take great comfort in that.
Thank you, Dee.
When I delivered Dad's eulogy, I began it with the quote from Rabindranath Tagore that you shared with me the day he died. It meant a lot to me then and it does today, too.
When I delivered Dad's eulogy, I began it with the quote from Rabindranath Tagore that you shared with me the day he died. It meant a lot to me then and it does today, too.
((Venecia)) Such a beautiful post of love, sadness, comfort, and good memories. I'm sure eventually the tears of a huge cathartic cry will come. Sorry for your loss of your beloved father.
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(((Venecia)))... thank you so much for these deeply felt and beautifully expressed words. I have tears rolling down my face typing this... I think you know how much I relate to these life experiences and feelings. And I know that re-reading this post will helped me also later.
I've thought about this many times... which one is better when we reach the inevitable crossroads of old age? Dying the way your Dad did -- or the "long goodbye of Alzheimer's"? For the person who's leaving, and for those that love them and stay behind? No answer. Probably there is no answer really.
It sounds like your Dad lived a very meaningful life, that he was someone who had the ability to not only recognize beauty and purpose, but also to create it for himself and those around him. Including gifting the world with people like yourself. How can it get better, really?
My thoughts are with you and with your family today, my friend
I've thought about this many times... which one is better when we reach the inevitable crossroads of old age? Dying the way your Dad did -- or the "long goodbye of Alzheimer's"? For the person who's leaving, and for those that love them and stay behind? No answer. Probably there is no answer really.
It sounds like your Dad lived a very meaningful life, that he was someone who had the ability to not only recognize beauty and purpose, but also to create it for himself and those around him. Including gifting the world with people like yourself. How can it get better, really?
My thoughts are with you and with your family today, my friend
Venecia-
I feel your post so deeply on very many levels. I remember the day my dad took me to lunch and with a copy of his medical report told me he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I assured him that I would make sure Mum was cared for which I think gave him great relief. We sat there together, stunned.
He had this horrible disease for 9 or so years, and thankfully never turned "angry".
We had many lunches together and always he would ask what I did for a living, did I have kids, where did I live. He repeatedly asked my mother to marry him, and even warned her that he had three kids. My mother had him at home as long as she could until, due to Lewis Body disease, he started to fall a lot and she couldn't lift him. She visited everyday from 10-5, going home to her small house alone, still married, but feeling widowed. We all grieved the loss of my father long before his body gave out. On the last night of his life, I visited and as I was leaving, sat by his side and said, "you've been a good dad". He replied, "I will always be there for you". Not many people get as good a farewell as that, and I'll always be grateful.
I was 6 years sober hen he died and I also did not cry and cry after he died. I always wondered if it wasn't hitting me and would catch up with me at some totally inconvenient time. I also wondered if the length of his illness helped me.
I don't know. I am very sure that being sober was so incredibly important for helping my family and my mother through this time. I know as sure as anything, I would have been a drunken mess 7 years before.
My father also willed his body to Alzheimer's research. My mother took the ashes to Pennsylvania to her family plot, but there was no ceremony. She did it all herself, as she wanted it. (She did save some of his ashes and we have "brought" him to some of his favorite places. A handful is in my mum's garden). You are so fortunate to have the finality of placing him in the earth. I wish I'd had that...
Thank you for your post. I'm sorry for any sad feelings it evoked, but it was so very helpful for me.
I feel your post so deeply on very many levels. I remember the day my dad took me to lunch and with a copy of his medical report told me he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I assured him that I would make sure Mum was cared for which I think gave him great relief. We sat there together, stunned.
He had this horrible disease for 9 or so years, and thankfully never turned "angry".
We had many lunches together and always he would ask what I did for a living, did I have kids, where did I live. He repeatedly asked my mother to marry him, and even warned her that he had three kids. My mother had him at home as long as she could until, due to Lewis Body disease, he started to fall a lot and she couldn't lift him. She visited everyday from 10-5, going home to her small house alone, still married, but feeling widowed. We all grieved the loss of my father long before his body gave out. On the last night of his life, I visited and as I was leaving, sat by his side and said, "you've been a good dad". He replied, "I will always be there for you". Not many people get as good a farewell as that, and I'll always be grateful.
I was 6 years sober hen he died and I also did not cry and cry after he died. I always wondered if it wasn't hitting me and would catch up with me at some totally inconvenient time. I also wondered if the length of his illness helped me.
I don't know. I am very sure that being sober was so incredibly important for helping my family and my mother through this time. I know as sure as anything, I would have been a drunken mess 7 years before.
My father also willed his body to Alzheimer's research. My mother took the ashes to Pennsylvania to her family plot, but there was no ceremony. She did it all herself, as she wanted it. (She did save some of his ashes and we have "brought" him to some of his favorite places. A handful is in my mum's garden). You are so fortunate to have the finality of placing him in the earth. I wish I'd had that...
Thank you for your post. I'm sorry for any sad feelings it evoked, but it was so very helpful for me.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad--his last day sounds just about perfect, and I'm glad you are finding comfort in that.
May he live on in the hearts of all who love him. Thank you for sharing him with us.
Many hugs to you as you navigate through the recent changes in your family. Take care of yourself as you grieve. xoxo
May he live on in the hearts of all who love him. Thank you for sharing him with us.
Many hugs to you as you navigate through the recent changes in your family. Take care of yourself as you grieve. xoxo
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