Life After Dad

So, I lost my dad about two weeks ago.  I have yet to cry since he died.  I think I used up all of my tears in the year before his death.  I cried as I watched him struggle to breathe, his shoulders heaving, fighting for every breath.  I cried when his lifelong optimism shone through his sickness as he hoped for a cure while bravely undergoing poisonous chemotherapy treatments.  I cried as I watched him try to keep doing the little things he loved, like yardwork, even though he had to stop every little bit, bending over at the waist with his hands on the tops of his thighs, trying to catch his breath.  I cried when he finally gave up on the little things and resigned himself to staying in the house.  I cried when he forced himself to eat the meal placed in front of him, knowing that he wasn’t hungry and that the food held no flavor for him. 

I cried as I listened to him reassure my mother and me that he had lived a good life and was prepared to meet God.  I cried as I watched that horrible disease attack my father’s once strong body, leaving it an emaciated frame, too weak to stand under its own power.  I cried as he suffered through his final week here on earth; he, confined to his bed, me, lying helpless in a crumpled heap in his kitchen floor. 

It was hell.  They told me it would be.  And I hated them for telling me that.  And I hate them now for being right. 

I feel lost.  Not because so much of my identity was tied to my father.  To be honest, our relationship was far from perfect.  I’m sure he would have told you the same.  But as the only “local” child, I am responsible for helping my mother get through this.  And I don’t know how to do that. 

We are not emotional people.  We don’t share all of our feelings.  We deal with it… later.  We press on and assure ourselves that when we have a bit of time to ourselves, we will deal with all the hurt and anger and pain.  But it is a solitary process.  So, I’m not exactly sure how my mom is doing, other than she now has the attention span of a gnat.  I try to be the one she can lean on when she has a bad day, when she can’t find her car keys, when her Internet isn’t working.  I try to make it better for her.  That’s my goal:  to make my mom’s life better. 

However, I still have a loving husband at home who is used to being the center of my world.  He has been wonderful through the whole process.  Even when his co-worker noticed how much time I had been spending at Mom’s house and asked him if I had left him and moved back home, he kept his sense of humor.  But he needs my time and my help, too.  And I really am trying to be there for him.  And I’m failing miserably. 

And then there’s me.  As selfish as it sounds, I need some time alone.  It doesn’t have to be time at the spa or shopping or even in a warm bath – although all of those sound nice.  It can be while I’m doing laundry or cleaning up around the house.  I just need some time when it is just me, alone, to recharge.  And I’m not getting it.  And I’m starting to crumble.  But there is no time for that.

And so I will press on.  Blindly trying my best to be the person I need to be to help those I love while we all try to work through this time.  They didn’t tell me about this part.