Godspeed

Dying is as sacred as birth but it’s heartbreaking instead of joyful, as most births tend to be. Nothing compares to the loss of someone we love, it leaves a hole in our hearts that never completely repairs itself. We go on, we live our lives, we fall in love, but we are never quite the same again.

In some ways my father’s illness was a blessing. His decline took him away in fragments, leaving us ample time to say goodbye, each in our own way. For me, as his main caretaker, I sacrificed him knowing I was his daughter for feeling complete when he was gone. I had the luxury of time to make peace with any unresolved issues I had left in me. The more vulnerable he became, the more tender I was, for the most part.

In the spur of the moment, my father’s dementia could make him combative and angry and often I was the brunt of it. I was not always proud of how I reacted when he tried to fight me in those demented moments. Sometimes, forgetting his behavior was an illness, I would react in anger toward him then later, once in bed, would sob at how I had treated him. My heart would break and I would pray for forgiveness and to become more patient and loving. It gave me a clear picture of why war doesn’t work. Anger responding to anger cannot create peace. It only escalates into pain for both sides. One of the participants must back down and turn in the other direction and resolve to behave differently. That’s what I began practicing. There were hard and painful lessons but love was the prevailing force between my father and me during those months. Today, almost four months since he passed away, I know the choice I made to come home and care for him was the best choice I ever made. I know what I shared with him was beautiful and difficult and extremely profound and nothing in my life will ever quite match it.