Tag Archives: grief

My Last Birthday with Dad

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The anniversary of Dad’s death is approaching. My grief  is never really that far away, but the week leading up to October 24th seems to give my grief permission to invade my life and grow stronger the closer it gets to the anniversary date. Over the last few years it has been a struggle to “celebrate” my birthday when the memories of my last birthday with Dad still seem so fresh. October 18, 2011, was the last time I celebrated with dad. How could I know a week later, he would be gone.

We gathered at the table like we did every year for by birthday, candles and cake, flowers and balloons, cards and gifts. Except this time, dad was bald from the radiation treatment. His full head of curly hair was the only thing missing that day.  The memory of  his laughter and singing “Happy Birthday” will be with me always and even though I sob each time I watch these video clips, I feel dad’s love and spirit here with me.

Sharing these bitter sweet treasures of October 18, 2011 my last birthday with dad…

 

Witnessing the Beauty and Grace of Humanity

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I started going with dad to his doctor appointments after his cancer diagnosis. He couldn’t drive anymore and his hearing was terrible. I did my daughterly duty with honor, guilt, sadness, pain, love and sacrifice. Every day was harder than the next, but I showed up, notebook in hand and ready to roll. Just like my dad taught me.

From diagnosis to treatment the words flew so fast that I don’t think he really comprehended what was going on, but I clung to every word. As the doctor gave him the news that his cancer was at stage 4, he looked un-phased. Time stopped. It was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he broke the silence and asked a question. “Ok doc, 4 out of what? 10?” My heart sank. I heard the words “stage 4” and I had to hold back tears. I had experienced the ravages of cancer with my in-laws and read everything I could read on staging and prognosis and I knew what “stage 4” meant. I was holding on to faith and on to reality at the same time. I fought back my tears and tried to do my daughterly duty, be present and take notes. Just like my dad taught me.

When the doctor’s started explaining the side effects of chemotherapy, I watched as the words passed by him. He focused on one statement “and you will lose your hair” WAIT!!! What?? He got that “what are you talking about” look on his face. Dad’s closest touch to cancer or chemotherapy was what he saw on TV. He couldn’t lose his hair. He was famous for his billowing salt and pepper curls. I would tease him about his weekly trips to his hair lady. Either he was lying about his weekly haircuts and just hanging out in the neighborhood or he had a crush on his hair lady. He would just laugh and say “Ay Mijita! I am really getting my haircut.”

The effects of chemo and radiation started showing, but dad was not having it. He told me in one of our quiet moments in the morning, that his beloved hair had actually started falling out. He said he wanted to get his hair cut to avoid the slow fall out and patches of hair hanging on for dear life.

Ok, I thought to myself. I can do this. I can “do” something. I offered to take dad to my hair lady. I just knew she would be gentle with him. Of course, dad declined my offer. He said he wanted to go to his lady.

Days passed by and he kept delaying getting his hair cut. I could see his hair thinning. Again I offered my hair lady, but he was adamant that he wanted his hair lady. I thought his decision to cut his hair was an act of defiance against chemotherapy, but after I witnessed the grace and beauty of his hair lady, I knew I was wrong. I think his decision to get haircut, in his time, on his terms and with his hair lady was an act of acceptance. He accepted the fact that he did indeed have cancer, that he was going to experience the side effects and that he had to begin to say good bye, in his time, and on his terms.

We finally made our way to dad’s hair lady. I was curious to see what was so special about this hair lady. I was taken aback from their first interaction to the last. I was especially touched by her gentleness with dad that I decided to take a picture of them to help me remember the moment. It’s a moment I’ve kept close to me, that only now, can I put in words what I was trying to capture with this picture.

dad hair cut

The hair lady didn’t notice we walked in. I took a seat and dad patiently waited for her to turn around from cleaning her chair area. She smiled from ear to ear like she had just seen an old friend. With my limited comprehension of Spanish and what I could gather from their body language this is what happened next.

The hair lady seemed to ask daddy where he had been. He quietly leaned over and told her about his cancer and being in the hospital. Her beaming smile was erased in an instant. As always, dad tried to cheer her up as soon as he noticed her concerned look. I’m not sure what he told her. If I had to guess, he probably made a pass at her because she seemed to turn red. He must have told her about his chemo and his hair falling out because she reached up on her tiptoes and ran her fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. It looked like she was trying to reassure him. She seemed to take a deep breathe to compose herself and invited him to take a seat in her chair.

Dad sat in the chair and stared in the mirror like he was trying to memorize what he looked like with hair. She stood behind him staring at the man in the mirror. It was one of the most intimate moments I had witnessed. She put both hands on his head and leaned over and kissed his head full of hair and then she got to work. For every curl that fell, I found my tears falling, but she cleaned him up good. He asked her the full treatment. She cut and trimmed with such gentleness and he was as relaxed as I had seen him in months.

When she was done, she spun him around in his chair so he could see his new self in the mirror. He seemed to stare a little longer trying to adjust his eyes to his new bald head. Again, she cradled his newly bald head in her hands and gently kissed the top of his head. They embraced and whispered to each other. She told him not to wait so long next time and he just gave her a lingering look. He pulled out a wad full of money and thanked her for taking care of him and his hair. She tried to give him the wad of money back like that would reverse the inevitable words that would come out of his mouth. He started to say something but she stopped him by hugging him again. She didn’t want to say good bye and yet every one of her actions made his good bye, a good bye that didn’t require words. She eased his worry. In that moment, I knew I had witnessed the grace and beauty of humanity. Dad reminded me that you should be loyal to the people who treat you well, you should always leave a big tip, and in turn, you will be treated with dignity and respect. So, I’ll take this lesson with me too, just like my dad taught me.
Missing you much old man!

Stacy Adams

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shoesstacy adams

When dad was hospitalized at the VA, I remember bringing him things from home. We didn’t know how long he would be there initially, so, at first the items he asked for were every day essentials like his dictionary and thesaurus that he used for his daily cross word puzzles, his favorite pajamas and his cologne, in case he met a pretty nurse. That was dad!
After a roller coaster ride of diagnosis, prognosis, treatment plans and an undetermined length of hospital stay, he asked me to bring his prized possession to the hospital, his fancy black Stacy Adams, the shoes that brought him to all the special moments in his life like our graduations, weddings, funerals, holidays and of course, every Father’s Day celebration.
Like a good daughter, I obeyed. I went home, wrapped up his fancy black Stacy Adams and brought them to him on my daily trip to the VA. He gave me specific instructions: “Mijita, take these to the shoe shine man we say hello to every day. Tell him to give these a good shine and let him know they are for me. He knows me.”
Of course he knew dad. Everybody at the VA knew dad. When I wheeled him around to his appointments or just to get out and about, he was like the big man on campus “Hey Pacheco” sounded around every corner and good Lord if we passed by any women I’d have to push his wheel chair a little faster before he proposed to one of them.
I dropped off the shoes and told the shoe shine guy to give them a good shine for Manuel Pacheco. He smiled and said “Hey..Hey…for Pacheco, of course! Just give me a couple of days so I can do them right.”
I passed by the shoe shine guy every morning and we would exchange a hello and he’d give me an update. “Not ready just yet.” I gave dad the daily update and he would just laugh. I grew frustrated at the delay and he said “Aye Mijita, calm down. Things run a little slower here at the VA.” Boy did I learn that first hand.
We were getting close to discharge and finally, on my way past the shoe shine guy, he waved me over to let me know the shoes were ready. He held them up as if they were a trophy. Those beautiful black shiny Stacy Adams sure were pretty. I told him we would pick them up on our way out.
After what seemed like an eternity, dad was discharged. We were ready to go home, but first, we had one last stop at the VA. I watched the exchange between the two of them. Again the shoe shine guy held up the shoes like they were a trophy and dad looked at them like his prized possession. He thanked him and as usual, gave him a huge tip.
On our drive home dad told me he used to be a shoe shine boy. I never knew that! I treasured these tid-bits of his life he would share. I got used to dad sharing things from his past. It was usually in the quiet moments that he would share something new. I really miss those moments.
After we got home, dad put his shoes right back in the same spot, in the closet. I kept waiting for him to put them on for some special occasion or just because. He never did. A month after he was discharged home under hospice care, he passed away.
The next time dad wore his fancy black Stacy Adams was at his funeral. As I think about our time together and all the “preparation” conversations we had, I can’t help but think he knew that would be his last shoe shine and he knew the next time he would be wearing those shoes would be at his funeral. That was dad, even in death, he was going to go out in style with his fancy black Stacy Adams.

Art work by Jesse Rodriguez of Magnolia Grown

What is Death?

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Shortly after dad’s death, I came across the poem, “What is Death?” and it gave me a way to think about how I would remember dad and keep his memory alive. Although I’m a social worker, I had no idea how I would help my kids deal with talking about Papa. I knew I could rely on my social work skills and instincts, but my head wasn’t there yet.

What is Death?

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without affect,
without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you,
for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just around the corner.
All is well.

~ Henry Scott Holland

 

If we could all be so lucky

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As my first official post, I wanted to start off with the words that I used to sum up my dad’s life. I’m sharing the eulogy I wrote for his funeral service on October 31, 2011. This was the first time I started to write about this journey.

“I heard my dad retell the story to people about when he got the call from the doctor about his diagnosis. He was driving, smoking a cigarette and had a beer in one hand and the phone in the other. He would say, at the end of the phone call, he threw his cigarette and beer out the window and kicked the devil out the truck. Since that day, only the Good Lord was riding with him. It was so true. I witnessed his daily transformation. He made peace with the past that haunted him.
In the final month of my dad’s life, he had come to terms with God’s plan for him. He knew his time was limited, but you would never have known it from talking to him. He always seemed to make US feel better at the end of every conversation.
Dad started to take notice of the little things. He would tell me about watching the sunrise every morning when he was in the hospital and how he couldn’t wait to feel the sun again. When he came home, he’d sit outside and feel, really feel the sun. I would watch him some times, closing his eyes, soaking in the sun. He would sit on the back porch and feel the wind blowing on his newly bald head. He’d smell the moon flowers and admire the beautiful Angel trumpets. He was truly thankful for every day.
He savored every cup of his morning coffee and every bite of food friends and family brought over. He read every word in the newspaper and attempted every crossword puzzle. He wasn’t going to waste any time.
He became more intentional about his life lessons. He would sit at the kitchen table with my kids and tell them about why it’s important to listen to their parents, to help out around the house, to be respectful and of course, to do their homework. He never let an opportunity pass that he could talk about staying in school or going back to school to anyone who would listen.
My dad valued education. It was education that gave him opportunities in his life. He also valued family and friendship and in the end, he valued his faith.
My dad left this world the way he wanted to, at peace with himself, with faith in God and surrounded by his girls. If we could all be so lucky…..”

This was my first experience being so intimately involved with planning a funeral. Dad planned as much as he could. I used to think it was so morbid to plan your own funeral. In the end, it was comforting to know that I was honoring his wishes and not guessing what I thought he would want. But then there were other things that I had to make decisions about. All the details and decisions blew my mind and made me really think about what I want for myself. For example, I had never seriously considered cremation, but dealing with the details of burial, I am seriously considering it. Then, I think about the question of, do I pick my own urn? I’m not sure I am ready to do that just yet. I have trouble deciding which pairs of shoes to get. I think about decisions my kids would have to make. Would they scatter me somewhere special? Would they fight over who gets to keep the urn? Would they divide me up in 4 urns? They are still young and I guess my block here is watching them fight over who gets the remote. With that as my frame of reference, you can see why I would be worried. There are so many questions and although I haven’t made any real decisions about my own burial plans, I’m good with just thinking about them and talking through them with my husband. I am learning it is not morbid or creepy to plan or prepare, it is actually a loving and courageous act. If we could all be so lucky…