Last night was another evening of my darling "biddies." We drink and eat and talk of silly and profound things into the wee hours of the next day. For a while, our talk centered on the death of parents. One of my friends is going through the end of life with her Dad. Since I am the one who has lost both parents, another friend asked me to tell the story of their deaths.
Perhaps she wanted me to help her push back the fear of facing life without her mother and father.
It's been 11 years since my father's death and six since my mother died. And both experiences were so different and the accompanying emotions while similar were also more acute for my father and less so for my mother.
My father died very suddenly on a beautiful Sunday morning in August. He just up and died with absolutely no warning. When my brother Michael phoned to share the news, I felt like someone was trying to shove information into my brain but I just couldn't take it in. My husband had to come to the phone because I just didn't know what to do with it. Thankfully, he was always very good and competent when things became difficult. Bill knew how to navigate those sharp turns with grace and compassion. It was an odyssey -- the drive to Boston, the rounding up of my siblings, the care of my wonderfully strong mother, the wake, the funeral and then the re-entry to ordinary life. We buried my father on my daughter's fifth birthday and my youngest sister's 30th birthday. I remember months later having to call into my office to take a sick day because I could not stop crying. I was so profoundly sad over the loss of my Dad.
My mother had Ovarian cancer and she lived with it for almost four years. It was an up and down process. She endured rounds of chemo therapy some with absolutely painful and mystifying side effects. But she forged on and kept working and living her life. It was three months before she died that she declined. It was quick, but I was able to spend a great deal of time with her at the end. We talked about death and what life would be like without her. And when I had to return home to California, our goodbye was a cheerful one. I knew I would not see her alive again. But we hugged each other merrily and I looked into her crystal clear blue eyes and told her I would see her in 40 years. A few weeks later she left. But that was not such a shock because I had lived for four years knowing what was going to happen and I was grateful that her death was not too lingering and that she was able to die in her own home surrounded by those she loved most. I got the phone call from sister about her death while I was driving with my daughter down the California coast to the spend the afternoon at the beach. My first thought after hanging up with my sister was to head back to the city, but instead we continued to the beach As I lay on the sand that afternoon, I felt this great sense of peace. My mother was at rest and relieved of her pain. Her journey was complete and she was home.
I still miss them, but I can feel them. I know that in the years that have since passed they have guided me through the continuing upheavals of life -- my divorce, settling into a new region of the country, enduring life as a single mother of a very opinionated teenager but good hearted teenager.
