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they certainly ring true.
it seems as if coping with and helping others in their transitions -- dealing with death as an adult -- is one of those last skills acquired. there are so many emotions to navigate. it sounds as if, for all the inherent difficulty and unpleasantness, you've managed to level up there, to the benefit of your aunt, your dad, and your uncles.
>As I write the obit and funeral program, looking at the pics
>has been hard. Especially those pics of me and her when I was
>a kid.
these 'new school' funerals be the toughest, sometimes. for my mother in law we went through dozens of photo albums searching for those handful of representative snapshots through which to distill her life. the a/v folks at church made a beautiful slideshow which was sad, but also calming and affirming. as wrenching as it is to see some of those old photos and know that you can never go back, it is far, far better than the memory of a loved one's physical shell in a hospital bed, or some funeral director's approximation of him or her, laying impassive in a casket.
>
>>being strong for your dad, however, includes allowing him to
>>see that being strong includes acknowledging and responding
>to
>>those feelings. i don't know how he is... but maybe if you
>cry
>>around him, rather than making him sad, you give him
>emotional
>>cover to let HIS feelings out. (if i recall correctly, she
>>pretty much raised him so this is like him burying his
>mother,
>>right?)
>>
>>he's gonna need to get those tears out.
>
>This is the first time, in my life, that I've ever seen my dad
>cry. I love my dad so much. He is the epitome of what every
>man should be. So, I want to make sure that my support of him
>honors his grief.
>
>Even in this last month, it's been like he was in denial. And
>I so wanted to protect him from that denial. For example,
>about a week or so ago--after we made the decision to cut life
>support--he and I met with her speech therapist to get a
>prognosis regarding her swallowing. Her hospitalist had
>already said that she was beyond hope, but my dad
>understandably wanted to talk to the speech therapist. The
>therapist told him and me that while she had a small amount of
>reflexive swallowing, she could not swallow meals. This meant
>that while she could swallow her saliva (as we often do
>without ever noticing) that was it. What he said was
>consistent with what the hospitalist said. I heard "little
>hope". My dad heard "some swallowing, so maybe she can get to
>50% better." :-/ I knew that that was not what the speech
>therapist meant and I tried to clarify, but it angered him.
>So, I let it go. Then he called my uncle and cousin and told
>them:
>
>"50% CHANCE"
wow. HOPE. that's hard. that slow process of replacing the object or objective of your hope from a restoration in the physical, to an understanding that you will see them again in the hereafter. that's a tough line to cross, but i think, mentally, emotionally, once we cross that, its easier to attend to the here and now -- how can we understand that we can let. them. go. that helping them with their bags as they make this final journey is not a betrayal. its a final act of kindness and love on this side of eternity.
>I once again said dad, that's not what he meant and he again
>got frustrated with me. Again, I let it go. A few days later,
>the docs told him again that she would likely not recover. We
>took her home last Friday night. My dad and my uncle focused
>much of their attention on how to get her to swallow. She was
>losing so much weight. They thought she was losing weight
>because she wasn't eating; but, she was actually not eating
>because she was dying. They denied that
>truth...understandably. They tended to her bedside like very
>young sons tending to their ailing mother as if they were
>confounded and befuddled that "mom" would not respond to them
>as she always did. They did the things they knew would annoy
>her like shaking her bed. Sometimes she'd respond in a barely
>audible admonishment of "STOP IT GEORGE," but mostly she
>stared into space and averted her eyes. My uncle thought that
>that meant she was angry with him. But, hospice explained that
>it meant that she was traveling. She was conveying that she
>was leaving us. Really not even conveying because she was not
>focused on us...she was elsewhere and indicating such. My dad
>and my uncle stood on either side of her bed holding her
>hands. Washing her face. Loving on her in the way that strong
>men who are made vulnerable by circumstances emote. They loved
>her and felt helpless, but refused to concede
>hopelessness...until 1:29 pm on Thursday.
that traveling theme is so pervasive. and people who are around death like that really do develop a sense. kinda like when i'm flying and we hit turbulence, my eyes are to the flight attendants -- if they cool, i'm cool. nurses be knowing. kinda like reverse midwives. "it won't be long now". sometimes they'll say it, other times it'll be concealed within a nod or a glance.
like i was saying above, you put this very beautifully. and this is a path we'll all have to walk down (losing a loved one) unless WE are the ones who are quickly cut off.
i hope, in all of this, you and your family can have a Merry Christmas.
peace & blessings,
x.
www.twitter.com/poetx
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I'm an advocate for working smarter, not harder. If you just
focus on working hard you end up making someone else rich and
not having much to show for it. (c) mad
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