The Last Goodbye

The last goodbye. Have you ever thought that the last time you saw someone it might be the last time you would see them? Now the reality is that this could be a possibility each day, but it is something that is too painful to dwell on. If we did, each day would break our heart. But a little over a year ago my eighty-nine year old aunt, my father's sister, flew down from Boston to see her baby brother for the last time. Their three day visit was full of childhood memories, quiet time together, and hugs goodbye. On that last day before she had to leave for the airport we went to visit Dad once again.  As she was leaving Dad hugged her, and called both her and me his sweetheart. Before she left the room she turned one last time to wave goodbye. Dad blew her a kiss. That image will be burned in my memory forever; such a sweet, simple loving act. My eyes welled with tears as we continued down the hall. She would never see him again in this earthly life. My aunt is a stoic, faithful woman who has devoted her entire life to God through the religious life. I feel certain she knows that one day she will not only be reunited with my Dad, but with all her brothers and her sister again. It takes strength to say that last goodbye and to be honest, it broke my heart to see it.

Grief

Grief. 

"Grief is a process, not a state," are the words of poet Anne Grant.

As I contemplate the death of my father I realize that I have been grieving for the last two 
years. As I battled the stages of grief, first denying anything was wrong, then finding myself angry at my Dad's reluctance to allow for help, my depression as I made my way through the many decisions that needed to be made, and now the acceptance of his passing, I am finding myself feeling a sense of relief. 

Does this mean that I am not sad, no because I am.  Does it mean that I won't miss him, no because I do.  Does it mean that I won't shed any more tears, no because I am certain I will. 

What I didn't realize during the last two years as I watched my father decline, was that he actually was giving me a gift. He gave me time to mourn the father I had always known, and time to care and love for him in his greatest hour of need. As I've worried, and cried and prayed during the last couple of years, I have also been the recipient of such kindness and love found at every turn. My father touched so many lives in his last two years, that it made me realize that even in our diminished state we still bring purpose and value to this life. 

So as we say our final goodbyes today, I'm blessed I was able to see him through to the end of his life, and be there for him just like he always was for me. 

Signs

Signs. 

My blogger pal Kathy has written several times about signs she finds along the way of her mother's presence. My sister Jean is always on the look out for cardinals, taking solice in the fact that our mother is still looking after her. 

At my Dad's passing Kathy encouraged me to be open to signs from him. I think the other day might have been one of those signs. I was upstairs making a bed when I noticed a dove sitting on the window ledge. It caught my eye, and I smiled wondering if it could be a sign from Dad?

Later in the day I was returning a library book when I was greeted by another dove standing on the sidewalk entrance to the library. Again I took a moment to enjoy the thought that it could be from Dad. Later as I thought about it I remembered how just like me, the library was one of Dad's favorite places. 

In fact, he was the one who took me to the library for the very first time, and the one who religiously let me drive on Saturday mornings to our local branch, despite the fact that I always drove over the curb on the way out. 

As I drove home a little later, what should swoop by my car, but another dove. That made three doves in one day. 

Now do I know for sure it was a sign from Dad? No, not really, but I have no proof it wasn't. Thank you Kathy for reminding me to be on the lookout, and thank you Jean for believing. 

The Kleenex Emergency

The Kleenex emergency. 

The other day when I was loading my car with groceries at Walmart I noticed a mother and her four children walking to their car. There must have been some sort of tissue emergency because she had busted open an industrial size package of Kleenex boxes. 

At least two of the children had their own box while Mom juggled the rest. Apparently the Kleenex had been their only purchase. Because their van was parked next to my car I was required to wait as she loaded up her precious cargo. 

It seemed to be taking longer than necessary when I noticed that she was fumbling with one of the boxes as she attempted to attach it to the headrest. I suppose this made it easily accessible to the backseat passengers. 

Now what I found amusing about the whole spectacle is that Kleenex has rarely been included on my own grocery list. My family lives in a Kleenex-free zone, and we have been dependent on a roll of toilet paper if our noses ever decide to run. 

I guess it must have been awfully important to make a special trip to Walmart to stock up on Kleenex ONLY. I probably would have tried to combine it with picking up aluminum foil or some other random thing. Of course with a bunch of sneezing kids it probably was worth it. 

The "Mostly" Life

The "Mostly" life.

I came across a blog the other day called The Mostly Simple Life. What I loved about the title was the word "mostly." 

You see I often get ideas that seem really great at the time, but I fail to follow through on them. Back in the mid-nineties there was a movement called Voluntary Simplicity. I was completely intrigued, and yet I wasn't exactly sure how to make my very busy life into a simpler one. 

It seemed that the proponents of the movement had made drastic changes in their lives, and that just didn't seem possible for me at the time. However, what if I didn't live a completely simple life, but rather a "mostly" simple one?

Eating healthy most of the time. Being active most of the time. Attending church most of the time. Being kind most of the time. What living this "mostly" life does is remove the guilt of not doing something which often times discourages us, and makes us give up all together. 

What steps can you take to live a "Mostly Life?"

The Vocation of Daughter

The vocation of daughter. 

My church teaches about the calling of vocation. Simply put vocation is, "a function or station in life to which one is called by God." I have found myself in the vocation of wife, mother, grandmother, sister, friend and teacher. However, my role as daughter has been front and center the last few years. 

Although I was not my father's physical caretaker, I was tasked with the responsibility of caring for his and my stepmother's affairs. At times this  required many hours of work, as well as worry as I figured out each step along the way. 

Luckily however, I was supported throughout the process by the people I met.  Prior to this experience I was reluctant to ask for help, but I soon learned about the kindness of strangers. Time and time again my aching heart was comforted by others who seemed to be placed along my path. I never took a step alone. 

As we cleaned out Dad's room the other day I realized that my time as daughter was over. Beyond taking care of his estate I will no longer be needed in this role. Although, in many ways I feel as if a weight has been lifted, I also am so grateful that I was given the privledge of being there for him. 

"Do You Know Shari?"

"Do you know Shari?"

My sweet father passed away last week. I will miss him dearly. Two weeks ago, though, I received a gift from him that I will always cherish. I was visiting him, and when I said, "Hi Dad," he said to his neighbor, "Do you know Shari?"

Now this may seem unremarkable, except that I couldn't remember the last time he had actually said my name. Although, I always felt that he recognized me, the dementia had robbed his ability to remember names. 

In fact, a few months before he introduced me as one of his many daughters. I was quite pleased with that remark. Often times, those first few words would be the only ones that made sense. Dementia can make your ability to communicate a struggle.  

As much as I had tried to prepare myself for the enevitable, I was only kidding myself. How do you say goodbye to the man who has been your father for sixty years? 

It was a privledge to be his daughter, and a privledge to care for him in his latter years. I hope to pass along his legacy. 

I love you Dad!