Pieces of the Day

Saturday, October 29, 2011

The doings of the day drain us reminding us of the space that is vacant.

The house is quiet save for the humming of the refrigerator.  Bright late afternoon sunlight filter through the window where I positioned the ironing board this morning.  Mom is asleep.  I sat with her and held her hand as tears welled behind closed lids.  Dad had a bad dream one night, she told me.  He didn’t want to talk about it.  Perhaps he knew more than they did of what was coming, she said.  

Perhaps.

It is autumn here.  The timber behind the house is vibrant with colors.  Near the front drive is a tree swathed in yellow.  This is a magnificent season.  The flowers that draped Dad’s casket were red gerbera daisies and another flower with layers and layers of petals that fanned tight and compact like a powder puff, yellow tiger lilies, roses and orchids and peach roses.  I had suggested we do an arrangement using fall colors.  A lady at Mom’s church created the arrangement and donated it to us.

Tuesday, October 25, when I landed at the airport, I felt the hand of reality press on my shoulders.  It wasn’t heavy, but I knew its touch.  When Matt, my brother, stepped out of the vehicle and came around to greet me, I cried.  I cried, too, as Mom held me.  Kevin and Susan, friends from my mother’s church, took us to Houlihan’s to eat before we left the city.  We often stopped there as I flew out or flew in to the city.  Dad would take us, and he knew where to go.  We passed the booth where we normally sat.  Lunch was at first awkward.  I was acquainted with Kevin and Susan when I attended Mom’s church, but I did not know them very well.  Perhaps also the news of Dad’s passing was still fresh and we were working on getting acclimated to it.  Every now and then Mom would call out to him mournfully as to why he left her. 

Life is not always filled with certainty.  We expect one outcome only to find that what transpired was not according to plan.  I wanted very much for Dad to be restored in his body, for him to walk again and do those things he had always done.  He had become so frail and thin.  Only a miracle could raise him.  

We grieve because he is not tangibly here.  We grieve because he did not gain back the weight he lost.  We grieve because he did not get to walk again and do those things he longed to do.  There is a vacant space in the house.  The hospice bed that was positioned next to the French double doors that led to the deck is no longer here.  The bottles of medicine that crowded the kitchen counter are gone.  As is the wheelchair.  As is Dad.

I did cry because of the suddenness of it all.  But I take comfort in knowing that he is no longer imprisoned in a broken body.  That was the saddest part, to see him, who for as long as I’ve known him was so strong and independent, frail and unable to do things for himself.  Knowing that he is free is a relief.  I will miss him; I do miss him, but as my brother so aptly said, he lives on inside us.  

We stopped at the funeral home.  We had to decided on the service, when it will be, the flowers, who will speak, who will sing, who will be the pallbearers.  We had to pick a casket, choose between a box or a vault, select the program and thank you cards and swallowed hard once the total was tallied.  

We chose a beautiful casket of warm wood. 

That evening Mom asked if she could sleep in the same room with me.  She said she would sleep on the floor.  No such thing, I declared.  She will sleep in the bed.  In the middle of the night, I balanced between the state of sleep and wakefulness.  Pieces of the day lay afloat on the surface so that I was conscious of where I was, but when I felt something next to me that was not a part of my body, I swat at it.  It did not leave, and by this time I panicked, swatting more vigorously.  Only when Mom spoke did I remember she was beside me.

Dad & Matt