Sorry, faithful readers, it has been a rough couple of weeks. Interesting that I use the word “faithful,” as that is the focus of today’s entry.
My father passed two weeks ago, and his death and the ensuing aftermath has made me assess my own faith and the very nature of spirituality and religion.
My father had dementia, and over the last few months, he was no longer able to communicate, emote, or perform basic daily functions. He was no longer my father. At the wake, a colleague of mine, who had lost his mother to dementia, said it is, “The gift that keeps on taking.” This is true.
I flew in from South Carolina the Friday before he passed to join my brother and mother in vigil. My father was in home hospice, and he had been in a coma, tempered by morphine for a couple of days. He never opened his eyes.
On Saturday, my three children got to say their goodbyes, and we all spoke to him hoping he could hear us. He never opened his eyes. In a moment of quiet, after his grandchildren had gone, I told him it was, “okay to go.” I meant it.
Two weeks prior, Eileen and I had flown up for my cousin’s wedding, and we visited Dad in the rehab center. He recognized pictures of himself, but his eyes were vacant, lacking any of his mischievous spark. His feet dangled from his wheelchair and I was afraid they would catch under the wheels and cause him to tumble.
Concerned, I mentioned his feet to him, and summoning some vestige of his former self, he kicked them in a playful manner. For a brief moment, my dad had returned. That is the image that stayed with me through all of the obsequies. That is the image that will always stay with me.
On Sunday night, it was only the three of us, taking turns from fitful sleep to check on his progress and to deliver the medicine that would make sure he felt no pain. In these moments, I saw the toll caring for my father had taken on my mom.
I had rarely, if ever, seen my mother sick, let alone tired, but there she was, bags under her eyes, “sick” in spirit. I went back to my bed, and I stared at the ceiling and prayed for God to take my father- for his benefit and for my mom.
The next morning I woke with a start roused by my mother’s beckoning, and I knew. He was gone.
I have many reasons for penning this entry. Some recollection. Some cathartic. Some guilt. Mostly, I write it to understand faith.
I truly believe that my father lasted until Monday for two reasons. One, he was tough, but I feel he was also reticent to join the unknown. My father went to church, but I am not sure he had deep faith. The other reason, selfish as it sounds, was to restore my faith.
It is odd that we seek God mostly in times of unrest or when we need answers or help. Catholic mass ends with the phrases, “Go in Peace,” and “Thanks be to God.” True faith means believing that there is a higher power, an infinite plan for every detail in your life. Good and bad.
God answered my prayer fo comfort, solace and closure, but I also realized that I have to count my blessings, and be thankful for every aspect of my life. Life is full of trials and tribulations, but it is also filled with wonder and joy. Accepting that dichotomy is to know peace.
I vividly recall a time when I was running a tire drill for my players during my first year of coaching football. It was a glorious fall day, but I was lost in the routine and necessity of my position. Bored, my mind and my eyes drifted above the players to the sylvan landscape that bordered the field.
I am color blind, and reds, browns and greens are especially troublesome, but, on that day, I saw the fall leaves changing colors. I saw the sunlight dancing on the boughs. I saw a beautiful tapestry that was truly divine. On that day, God revealed himself despite the mundacity. On that day, I felt small and spiritual.
I hope that my words written in my father’s obituary and eulogy honored him and his life. I hope that my actions, during the last few weeks, honored his legacy as well.
Dad, it was okay to go. It was time. Let go knowing that you have raised Eric and I well. We will take care of Mom. We will be okay. I will be okay. I have faith, and I can see the trees.
Love You, Dad. Rest in Peace.
Craig
https://www.aplaceformom.com/caregiver-resources/articles/dementia-hotline