Mother's Day, 2017

There was a time when I didn't visit Dad much. Weeks, sometimes months would go by without me showing up at the house I grew up in.

I'm not proud of that, but I'm not ashamed, either. I moved on when I moved out, and we still had solid lines of communication. Dad understood that my life was 40 miles away from his.

When I did visit, sometimes it would just be him, Mike and I, and we would talk or he would read something aloud to me - something that pissed him off on Facebook, or an article that resonated with him. Those times often found us going deep in conversation. In those later years, we would often go deep. I could talk to Dad about anything. He made it safe to be his flawed and frightened daughter, and that meant he really knew me. He understood the whole of me, and for that I will be forever grateful.

As summer approached last year, I made it a point to come around to the family home more often. Dad was so excruciatingly tired, he'd made the decision to move Mike to the resident program at Marklund. So, knowing I would soon not be able to visit my brother in the house we grew up in, I committed to visiting every weekend until Mike moved.

That first visit was on Mother's Day.

We would often spend that day together as a family. Mom was gone, but there was still much to celebrate. I couldn't tell you what we ate, but I know that I sat at the table with Dad and talked. I know the family gathered for dinner. I know we laughed. And I know Dad was exhausted. So exhausted that he couldn't handle the business of a full day's responsibility for Mike. In an instant, I made the decision to take a few days off to help out.

It would only be temporary, I told myself. Just until we figured out what was wrong with Dad. Then he'd get better, and we'd all go back to our usual routine.

"Usual routine" is no longer in my vocabulary.

But on that day, with that simple decision to show up, everything changed. Because I was there, I was  able to say, yes, Dad - I will be here tomorrow at sunrise, to help you get Mike ready. I will be here with you for whatever you need. I will be here.

In those last weeks of his life, showing up was the only thing I could do. But it was all he needed. It was all any of us needed. We showed up for one another in simple and profound ways. I didn't realize it at the time, but in the simple act of being there, I ensured that my time with Dad would end with no regrets.

In those last weeks, we had opportunities to talk. There wasn't a lot that needed to be said, but we had ample opportunities to let it all out. To laugh. To remember. There were no conversations about being worried about the road ahead, but there was a lot of "I love you."

And it all came down to that one decision to show up, and the next decision to stay. To hold space. To say "I will be here," and then simply be there. 

It's time

It's been a year.

May 14, 2017 was Mother's Day. Our family gathered at Dad's house on Henry Court, as we did for pretty much every holiday we observed. And yeah, we observed Mother's Day even without Mom. Sometimes we'd go out, but last year ... last year, Dad was so tired.

He'd been tired for months. He muscled through as best he could, but going out to dinner would have been asking a bit much. So we gathered at the house we grew up in, and we had dinner together. If memory serves, that was the last time we were all together under one roof.

He was so tired.

Too tired.

And so, rather off the cuff, I said hey ... lemme take tomorrow off, Dad. Let me stay in town overnight, and come over first thing in the morning. Let me get Mike ready. Let me go with you to the doctor. Let me help.

The man was not much for accepting help, and so you knew that his acceptance of that offer meant he was feeling really pretty low, indeed.

And in that moment, everything changed.

Like life tends to do when you're not looking, mine turned on a dime. In a lot of ways, I found myself in the weeks that would come after that. I found patience, I found the heart of a caregiver, and gratitude I'd never before felt. My priorities became crystal clear. My dad, and my brother. Everything else was secondary.

I knew it would be temporary, but I thought that was because Dad would get better and we'd return to our regularly scheduled programming. Instead, a few weeks later Dad was gone.

At the time, I kept referring to the beauty in the pain. How even though the grief was at times excruciating, there was poetry in it. I kept saying, eventually I would write about it. Eventually, I will be able to process how losing Dad carried with it a measure of grace we could not possibly deserve.

It's time to tell the stories.