I’m posting this one again after visiting and reading J’s post Sunday Sadness in which she talks about how we all cope differently with grief over the holidays. The thing is, do we ever really get over the loss of a loved one at any time of year?
Surviving the loss of my parents.
Surviving a loved one’s death can only be personal and subjective. We all react differently, we all perceive differently, we all emote differently. Some feel the loss more keenly than others, some not so much. But one thing you can be sure of is, the loss of a loved one changes you no matter what your relationship was till that point.
I lost my father to lung cancer in 1991, he was only 68 years of age. His ‘illness’ was slow, debilitating, terrifying and painful right through till the last few weeks when, being cared for in our local hospice, my father passed quietly, almost peacefully after his (and yes, our) two year ordeal.
Heroic in her efforts and, till those last few weeks, my mother took on the all but lonely burden of looking after my father almost singlehandedly. Albeit with help, where we could, from the rest of us. Supporting and bolstering my mother, where we could, during a time where home care from any nursing services was, at best, minimal. Closer to the end, and before he was lucky enough to get into hospice care—and yes, I say lucky, because, due to space limitations, and the lack of hospice care in general, most people either die at home, or in hospital. And usually, with minimal care and attention. My mother had to feed, bath, dress and care for my father—a man she had already dedicated her life to for most of her adult life, sharing all the highs and lows along the way and giving birth to, and bringing up six children.
Trying to help her, as she tried to maintain my father’s dignity and integrity, was heartbreaking and gut wrenching. Especially on the last day when, with my mother, we watched the frail comatose shell that had once been my father, finally gave his last breath. I was holding his hand and gently rubbing his head in a way I had done from earliest childhood, when he simply stopped breathing. No drama. No wailing. No more pain. He was no longer there.