Some years back, a wise Vermont friend told me, “When both of your parents are gone, it’s as if a roof over your head has suddenly disappeared that you never even knew existed.” I wondered what that would feel like.
When my old Fathah recently died (he loved being called “Fathah” with a Boston accent), I found out. Even though we had been taking care of him, not he of us, he’d remained always somehow … in charge. Now I’m adrift. Untethered. When my mother died six years ago, I became an easy crier. So when people offer me condolences with those pained eyes, I lose it. Which makes me want to avoid people. No roof. I feel for people whose parents died young. Their roof was more evident, and necessary.
I was fortunate to be in the room when he went. It was painful, and beautiful, and profound. And painful. I had raced to be there in a rental car in the dark and somehow made it. Maybe he’d waited.
Just as I got there, 21 members of his choir arrived to him in his bed. I’ll never forget it. They did parts of “Peace like a River” and “Amazing Grace,” a song I never cared for untilI learned its history just this year. He opened his eyes and smiled. Someone made a crack about football and he smiled wider. My father was nearly deaf. Yet he heard them.
He couldn’t speak, so I “watered” him with straw-fuls of water, and said a lot, which flooded out of me as I wept. I sang into his “good” ear a gospel song he loved, “Down To The River.” And a bit of the Eagles. I was lucky because so many people camp out for days or weeks and the second they go for coffee, their parent takes off. I am certain that at one point he could see me. My father was blind.
He stopped breathing. Then his heart slowed. The nurse got a stethoscope. She said softly, “He’s going.” Pause. “He’s going.” And then my Fathah left the earth.
I had an awful time leaving his body behind. What if he was still in the room? My sister said by phone, “No way he’s still there. He hated it there. He’s back at the house!” I drove to his house, rolled in my luggage, turned on all the lights inside and out, cranked his beloved Eagles, surrounded by 1,000 photos my parents had framed, and keened.
I’m not a fan of the simple “Sorry for your loss,” or (to vets), “Thank you for your service.” Each feels a little pat. I’ll say instead, “I’m just so sorry,” or “Thank you for what you’ve done for our country.” I know vets who have given so damned much. I liked it when one person wrote me, “I’m sorry for the loss,” and another: “Well, that sucks.”
The Gifts of the People
When someone I haven’t seen in a while asks, “How’s it going?”, I sometimes exclaim, “My father died!” It’s all I need to say. Now their expectations of me are lowered, and the window opens for their wisdoms, which have been legion. A sampling:
A brilliant comedy writer friend who’s lost many people texted, “You never get over it. But you get used to not getting over it.”
A tennis pal wrote, “Death is such a part of life … natural, normal, and PAINFUL. We are all holding you up!” Later: “Think about jotting down some favorite memories. Stuff that doesn’t make the obit. It might be an ongoing list you can reflect on just for you. It’s a giant swing of emotions when it’s a parent.”
A library friend emailed, “I think of my parents as the wings that keep me going. I’m made of their DNA, so they’re always with me.”
Someone else said: “I never realized what a big deal it is when your parents die. Then mine did.”
A cashier said, “When you don’t have a good relationship with a parent and they die, you never get a chance to repair it.” A few people said this. My internal reaction was, “Well, it’s really the parent’s job to repair it.” But a healer I know recounted how he, as a young child, initiated the repairing. His father even mentioned it to him upon his deathbed.
The officiant at Fathah’s service has been a minister for decades. I asked how he keeps doing it. He said, “I do it. Then, I move onto the next person to help.” I have found that, indeed, helping others is a massive balm. Traumatized people agree.
A lovely local minister I’ve never met offered a phone call. He said many things that helped. “Everyone is surprised at their emotions when someone dies … it is a matrix of circumstances and personalities. You’re not in control of their death, or your feelings or thoughts. It is beyond your ability. Unless the feelings are intrusive, ongoing, embrace them.”
He went on. If you had a difficult relationship: “Examine in your heart why you are having these feelings. You cannot get to the bottom of it, but it can help to get inside their head. Ask God why they said or did the things they did.” It was odd he said this, because I’d recently had an epiphany where I “got” that my father’s criticisms were sometimes about his concern for me. He thought I was making the wrong decisions or on the wrong side of politics. He feared for me.
A dear contemporary whose husband died a 2 years ago wrote, “I feel like I’m in Stage 15, not that I have numbered them. Lots of examining stuff in a new light, as if I’ve moved onto higher ground and am looking back and down. Still pain, but a softer ache. Regret and acceptance.”
Ah, regret. That has been terrible. Not just the second parent to go, but the one I had a less easy relationship with. Also, he went so quickly. I thought we’d have weeks together, not one hour. When I find the clippings I was to read to him, the earbuds for him to hear my audiobook — or music — a memory of Christmases past, a post-it of cheery news about Barnard and Vermont … I bawl with a burning regret. I never got the chance. People say, “Read it to him now!” Oh friends, it’s so not the same. And much as I grieve for myself, and his wish to live longer, I’m relieved he’s out of pain.
Recently, an old friend and I were talking about the loss of certain houses in our lives. When I brought it up, I thought she’d think me petty, but she was totally on board, regaling me with stories of her grandparent’s magical house (replete with a non-working carousel and working miniature trains big enough to ride). Others agreed.
You can picture every inch of the house. The old appliances and countertops, the cabinets, lighting, the bed you slept in so soundly. If they die, you go through every inch of the place deciding what to keep. Your parents’ entire lives are chronicled in the house. But you’d need a museum to keep it all. Then someone buys it and utterly destroys its character. White cabinetry? A tear-down? When the house goes, all the memories that were inside … vanish. They are now only in your head. And as others pass on, there is ultimately only one Keeper of the Memories. Which is the strangest thing.
What I have mostly found is this: no matter what shape they were in when they died, you always wanted more time with them. Even just five minutes. You don’t want them to suffer, at all, but at least when you had to take care of them, they were still in the room. You could still be loving, even if it was only going in just one direction. You don’t want them to go.
I have heard this sometimes happens even when the parent was declining with memory loss. Initially, they’re on the phone trying to figure out whom they’re speaking with (their own child), or rooting for the wrong team in sports — some of it tragic in the moment and later comical, or vice versa. Then it gets worse. Much worse. But children do not always feel relief when that parent dies. They don’t want them to go.
There is no way I’m going to grieve this time as long as I did for my mother (3 years?). Fathah had a great life and knew it. I’m going to grief counseling, the gym, the woods, acupuncture. I’ll call those who offered to talk. Including Hospice personnel, God love them.
Take Dictation
One last piece of advice. As trips to Fathah 1,000 miles away became increasingly undoable, I’d take “dictation” from him by phone about his life. He loved talking — and having a secretary again, I think. All of his gems informed the obit, and gave me things to tell my family and his sister that we never knew. It also explained some things.
I leave you with a laugh. My dad had a great big sense of humor, and would be thrilled I ended with this. It’s the funniest, yet loving, obit:
Goodby, Fathah. I love you so. Thank you for everything. Good night.
Ann Aikens is an author, columnist, speaker, and blogger. Her darkly comical book of advice, A Young Woman’s Guide to Life: A Cautionary Tale, was published in 2023, her Upper Valley Girl column since 1996. Find events and bookshops at annaikens.com; her blog is uppervalleygirl.com. Her father was delighted by her humble scribblings.
uppervalleygirl 