Yesterday afternoon I dared to venture out of my house to visit a friend. She greeted me from the door of her home: beautifully decorated for the holidays. Inside, a freshly brewed cup of coffee sat on her kitchen counter top. She gave me a much needed hug while holding her newest baby grandson in her arms. I hadn't seen the baby since shortly after he was born. How he had changed during the last few weeks! Dressed in a dapper red plaid shirt and reindeer printed corduroy overhauls, he stared at me with cautious blue eyes as if to say, "Who do you think YOU are?"
I admit it: I melt at the sight of a baby. I love them and they typically love me. I think my ease with babies stems from being the oldest of five children. As a teen I babysat for my siblings more than I did anything else (that I can remember). Sometimes I resented it. Later in life, I became thankful for it. All of that experience with babies and young children helped me slide into natural motherhood the second my own were born. I've been drawn to babies ever since; soothing them from frazzled mothers whenever the opportunity presented itself.
As soon as I sat on my friend's white leather sofa, she knowingly placed her infant grandson in my arms. I kissed his mostly bald head; feeling soft whispers of lightly tufted hair against my cheek. I inhaled the newness of him, counted his tiny blond eyelashes and nuzzled his pink pudgy cheeks. He was beautiful. I can't begin to describe the feeling inside of me as this tender infant scrunched up against my melting chest. Pure joy?
Before long my friend brought me a bottle of formula so I could feed him. The little guy latched on to the nipple and gulped frantically. His eyes opened wide. This time he looked up at me with undeniable trust and contentment. As I gazed down at this angel of wonders nestled in my arms I flushed with happiness.
The circle of life.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
One Step at a Time
This morning I talked to my father on Skype. While I was in Arizona, I demonstrated this relatively new technology to him. At the time, he couldn't believe such a thing was possible. On my computer I could see Dad perfectly. Sitting in his striped pajamas, I noticed that his graying hair was tousled. Nearby on his desk sat a steaming cup of coffee and perched on his lap sat his dog, Prissy. It was good to see him up and living his daily life.
He was amazed to hear my voice through his computer. I could see it in his face! It was funny: Dad kept staring closer and closer into his computer screen. His face became larger and larger until I figured out that he could NOT see me! My dad is a bit challenged when it comes to his computer knowledge but he does better than most his age. I talked him gently through the necessary steps until my live image appeared on his screen together with my voice. My father started laughing hysterically.
"There's not enough time in the day," my dad, exclaimed. "I have to shower, buy chicken breast for the dog, boil it, work out, check my messages, do some yard work, and walk the dog. By then, the day is almost over!" he stated. I was thrilled to hear how busy he was keeping himself! I know he has his 'moments.' He tells me every day how much he loves and misses my mother. But I think he's going to be okay; he'll get there. Each day that I speak to him I become less and less worried. He's beginning to move forward through his grief, one step at a time.
Like my father and the rest of my family, I still have my 'moment's too. Yesterday, I finally unpacked from Arizona (it's been ten days). In my ragged suitcase I discovered a forgotten copy of Mother's obituary together with a few of her personal items that I chose to bring home with me. Things that wouldn't necessarily be important to anyone else, but items that are priceless to me. I carefully unwrapped Mom's sunglasses, a tube of her favorite lipstick, the comb that I used to fix her hair, and a daily prayer book that she read faithfully. I sat on the floor of my closet at the sight of these treasures and sobbed. After several minutes I placed them lovingly in the center of my favorite glass cabinet. Today I passed by them without crying. I only thought of how much I love and miss my mother. Although my mind knows she is gone, my heart keeps her very much alive.
He was amazed to hear my voice through his computer. I could see it in his face! It was funny: Dad kept staring closer and closer into his computer screen. His face became larger and larger until I figured out that he could NOT see me! My dad is a bit challenged when it comes to his computer knowledge but he does better than most his age. I talked him gently through the necessary steps until my live image appeared on his screen together with my voice. My father started laughing hysterically.
"There's not enough time in the day," my dad, exclaimed. "I have to shower, buy chicken breast for the dog, boil it, work out, check my messages, do some yard work, and walk the dog. By then, the day is almost over!" he stated. I was thrilled to hear how busy he was keeping himself! I know he has his 'moments.' He tells me every day how much he loves and misses my mother. But I think he's going to be okay; he'll get there. Each day that I speak to him I become less and less worried. He's beginning to move forward through his grief, one step at a time.
Like my father and the rest of my family, I still have my 'moment's too. Yesterday, I finally unpacked from Arizona (it's been ten days). In my ragged suitcase I discovered a forgotten copy of Mother's obituary together with a few of her personal items that I chose to bring home with me. Things that wouldn't necessarily be important to anyone else, but items that are priceless to me. I carefully unwrapped Mom's sunglasses, a tube of her favorite lipstick, the comb that I used to fix her hair, and a daily prayer book that she read faithfully. I sat on the floor of my closet at the sight of these treasures and sobbed. After several minutes I placed them lovingly in the center of my favorite glass cabinet. Today I passed by them without crying. I only thought of how much I love and miss my mother. Although my mind knows she is gone, my heart keeps her very much alive.
Like my father, I'm beginning to move through my grief too, one step at a time.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Cookie
Yesterday I finally got out of the pajamas I've worn since last Wednesday, took a bath, and got dressed! I did have a good cry but while doing so I remembered something a little funny. Something that made me smile. A small sign that maybe I'm beginning to move on?
On the day before Mom died she fell into a long, deep sleep after fighting to breathe all day. Later that night I went to check on her. She must have sensed my presence because she said aloud that she was finally able to breathe! She was so very thankful for the air in her lungs and the restful sleep that she had finally been given. I smiled with a sense of joy at her peacefulness and told her how happy I was. Suddenly, out of nowhere she asked me for a cookie!
"You want a cookie, Mom?" I asked. I chuckled in astonishment at her request. My mother hadn't eaten for several days. Nothing tasted remotely good to her. Now, she was asking me for a cookie. I couldn't believe it!
"Yes, I want a 'Mother's' brand soft, iced molasses cookie from the new bag hidden in the closet in the back bedroom," she stated, matter-of-fact. "Okay, Mom, I'll get it and be right back," I answered, kissing her forehead.
I rushed out of her bedroom and found the closet she spoke of. In the midst of a stack of new paper napkins and decorated paper plates was an unopened bag of the cookies my mother spoke of. Mom had a sweet tooth and often hid her 'stash' of cookies and candy. I gently wrapped the cookie in one of the new napkins and raced back to her as fast as I could. I didn't want to lose this moment.
"Here's your cookie Mom. Do you want a little glass of milk to go with it?" I inquired. "No," she answered. "Just the cookie." I sat on the edge of Mom's bed, amazed at her sudden strength and willpower. My mother's eyes never opened but she ate her cookie!
I know to anyone reading this it must sound silly. But to me, on that particular night, watching my dying mother eat a cookie was simply pure joy.
Tonight I feel lucky. I will forever have the memory of my mother eating a soft iced, molasses cookie.
A simple cookie.
On the day before Mom died she fell into a long, deep sleep after fighting to breathe all day. Later that night I went to check on her. She must have sensed my presence because she said aloud that she was finally able to breathe! She was so very thankful for the air in her lungs and the restful sleep that she had finally been given. I smiled with a sense of joy at her peacefulness and told her how happy I was. Suddenly, out of nowhere she asked me for a cookie!
"You want a cookie, Mom?" I asked. I chuckled in astonishment at her request. My mother hadn't eaten for several days. Nothing tasted remotely good to her. Now, she was asking me for a cookie. I couldn't believe it!
"Yes, I want a 'Mother's' brand soft, iced molasses cookie from the new bag hidden in the closet in the back bedroom," she stated, matter-of-fact. "Okay, Mom, I'll get it and be right back," I answered, kissing her forehead.
I rushed out of her bedroom and found the closet she spoke of. In the midst of a stack of new paper napkins and decorated paper plates was an unopened bag of the cookies my mother spoke of. Mom had a sweet tooth and often hid her 'stash' of cookies and candy. I gently wrapped the cookie in one of the new napkins and raced back to her as fast as I could. I didn't want to lose this moment.
"Here's your cookie Mom. Do you want a little glass of milk to go with it?" I inquired. "No," she answered. "Just the cookie." I sat on the edge of Mom's bed, amazed at her sudden strength and willpower. My mother's eyes never opened but she ate her cookie!
I know to anyone reading this it must sound silly. But to me, on that particular night, watching my dying mother eat a cookie was simply pure joy.
Tonight I feel lucky. I will forever have the memory of my mother eating a soft iced, molasses cookie.
A simple cookie.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Promises
My mother died two weeks ago today. My home is quiet except for the sound of my memories. Memories of my mother. Today, being an anniversary of sorts is hard. I suppose all of the anniversaries will be this way. Anniversaries and holidays alike. Still, I will remember my mother and get through them.
In reflecting back to the time I had with my mother before she died, I am so very thankful. I was with her for nine days and ten nights directly before she passed away. Several of those evenings I crawled into bed with her to watch her favorite 'True-Crime' shows on television: a passion I have inherited from her. I'd rub her back, apply her favorite lip balm, or gently hold her hand. Often, we spoke quietly together in the dark of the night; the light of the television softly illuminating her face. I marveled at her beauty, even then. Her illness had stolen nearly all of her body, yet her face remained softly beautiful; a water-color painting.
"I'm so grateful you're here with me, Kim," my mother repeated over and over. "I don't know what Daddy and I would do without you." The words were unnecessary. I knew. "I'm thankful to be here, Mom," I told her. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world." It was true.
As my mother's breathing grew weaker it became more and more difficult for her to speak. "You are a good mother," she suddenly said, very clearly. It was the greatest compliment she could have ever given me. "I'm only a good mother because of you, Mom," I replied, kissing her softly on the cheek. It goes without saying that she was my only teacher.
My mother asked me to promise her several things during those last few days we spent together. She was (of course) most worried about my father. "He can't even boil an egg," she said one night, with a feeble smile. "Don't worry about Daddy," I told her. "We'll all take care of him," I reassured her, referring to my brothers and sisters.
Mom reminded me of her beloved fifteen-year-old dog, a Yorkie named 'Prissy.' I promised her that I would take Prissy to the vet for a check-up. I would make sure she had all of her necessary shots and medicine. I did so in in the week after my mother died. Prissy is in good health; blind and deaf but living a good life with my father who adores her.
Mother asked me to take care of her dolls: a collection of hundreds. She didn't want my dad to be 'bothered' with them. After Mom passed away, I spent two days organizing them and discovered over 30 'play' dolls that were still in their original boxes. My dad bundled them all up and drove to the Elks Lodge where he donated them as Christmas presents for underprivileged little girls. This Christmas, special presents will be under trees all over Casa Grande thanks to my mother. For now, the rest of them sleep soundly wrapped in pink tissue paper awaiting my return.
One of Mom's final requests was for me to go through all of the Christmas ornaments she and my father had collected over the years. She asked me to organize shoe boxes full of shiny and glittery mementos. A special collection for my father, one for each of my brothers and sisters, and another for me. Someday in the future she wanted the ornaments passed down to the next generation. I have the shoe boxes ready and waiting. Time got the best of me but this will be one of the first things I do when I go back to visit my father.
My sister Brenda and I promised our dear mother that we would help her trim the Christmas tree. It sits atop my parent's fireplace hearth; the evergreen branches bathed in cottony 'snow' and brightened with creamy, white lights. Mother passed away before we could decorate the tree together. Afterwards, I felt I should do it but I sensed it was too much for my father to bare. The tree itself was a comfort to him. He knew how much it pleased Mother in her final days. She used to sit in her favorite chair and gaze at the quiet lights with a peacefulness surrounding her. After all he had been through, the festivity of adding colorful ornaments was something my father wasn't ready for. Too much, too soon. For now, I would leave the tree as is.
A few days after Brenda left for her home in Texas, a small package appeared in my father's mailbox. Inside, tucked in white tissue paper were two new Christmas ornaments. Brenda had purchased them before her trip to see Mother but in her haste to arrive she had forgotten to bring them with her.
I sat next to my father as he gingerly opened each new ornament. The first was a beautiful clear, acrylic heart trimmed with a gold cord. The heart was lined with our family surname (Kirk) together with all of our first names printed over and over in gold: Paul, Susan, Kim, David, Brenda, Kellie and Daniel.
The second ornament was a shiny, silver angel. Engraved in the middle was the name of our mother: Susan Carol. My father handed me the gold cord of the first opened ornament: the family heart. He watched me carefully hang it on a perfect green branch right in the center for all to see. Then, as if he was handling butterfly wings, he carefully placed the angel of our mother at the very top of the tree where it seemed to belong.
Together with Brenda and my father, I did help decorate the Christmas tree after all. And, because of the shiny, silver angel inscribed with her name, Mom was a very special part of it.
The tree is perfect. Just as I promised.
In reflecting back to the time I had with my mother before she died, I am so very thankful. I was with her for nine days and ten nights directly before she passed away. Several of those evenings I crawled into bed with her to watch her favorite 'True-Crime' shows on television: a passion I have inherited from her. I'd rub her back, apply her favorite lip balm, or gently hold her hand. Often, we spoke quietly together in the dark of the night; the light of the television softly illuminating her face. I marveled at her beauty, even then. Her illness had stolen nearly all of her body, yet her face remained softly beautiful; a water-color painting.
"I'm so grateful you're here with me, Kim," my mother repeated over and over. "I don't know what Daddy and I would do without you." The words were unnecessary. I knew. "I'm thankful to be here, Mom," I told her. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world." It was true.
As my mother's breathing grew weaker it became more and more difficult for her to speak. "You are a good mother," she suddenly said, very clearly. It was the greatest compliment she could have ever given me. "I'm only a good mother because of you, Mom," I replied, kissing her softly on the cheek. It goes without saying that she was my only teacher.
My mother asked me to promise her several things during those last few days we spent together. She was (of course) most worried about my father. "He can't even boil an egg," she said one night, with a feeble smile. "Don't worry about Daddy," I told her. "We'll all take care of him," I reassured her, referring to my brothers and sisters.
Mom reminded me of her beloved fifteen-year-old dog, a Yorkie named 'Prissy.' I promised her that I would take Prissy to the vet for a check-up. I would make sure she had all of her necessary shots and medicine. I did so in in the week after my mother died. Prissy is in good health; blind and deaf but living a good life with my father who adores her.
Mother asked me to take care of her dolls: a collection of hundreds. She didn't want my dad to be 'bothered' with them. After Mom passed away, I spent two days organizing them and discovered over 30 'play' dolls that were still in their original boxes. My dad bundled them all up and drove to the Elks Lodge where he donated them as Christmas presents for underprivileged little girls. This Christmas, special presents will be under trees all over Casa Grande thanks to my mother. For now, the rest of them sleep soundly wrapped in pink tissue paper awaiting my return.
One of Mom's final requests was for me to go through all of the Christmas ornaments she and my father had collected over the years. She asked me to organize shoe boxes full of shiny and glittery mementos. A special collection for my father, one for each of my brothers and sisters, and another for me. Someday in the future she wanted the ornaments passed down to the next generation. I have the shoe boxes ready and waiting. Time got the best of me but this will be one of the first things I do when I go back to visit my father.
My sister Brenda and I promised our dear mother that we would help her trim the Christmas tree. It sits atop my parent's fireplace hearth; the evergreen branches bathed in cottony 'snow' and brightened with creamy, white lights. Mother passed away before we could decorate the tree together. Afterwards, I felt I should do it but I sensed it was too much for my father to bare. The tree itself was a comfort to him. He knew how much it pleased Mother in her final days. She used to sit in her favorite chair and gaze at the quiet lights with a peacefulness surrounding her. After all he had been through, the festivity of adding colorful ornaments was something my father wasn't ready for. Too much, too soon. For now, I would leave the tree as is.
A few days after Brenda left for her home in Texas, a small package appeared in my father's mailbox. Inside, tucked in white tissue paper were two new Christmas ornaments. Brenda had purchased them before her trip to see Mother but in her haste to arrive she had forgotten to bring them with her.
I sat next to my father as he gingerly opened each new ornament. The first was a beautiful clear, acrylic heart trimmed with a gold cord. The heart was lined with our family surname (Kirk) together with all of our first names printed over and over in gold: Paul, Susan, Kim, David, Brenda, Kellie and Daniel.
The second ornament was a shiny, silver angel. Engraved in the middle was the name of our mother: Susan Carol. My father handed me the gold cord of the first opened ornament: the family heart. He watched me carefully hang it on a perfect green branch right in the center for all to see. Then, as if he was handling butterfly wings, he carefully placed the angel of our mother at the very top of the tree where it seemed to belong.
Together with Brenda and my father, I did help decorate the Christmas tree after all. And, because of the shiny, silver angel inscribed with her name, Mom was a very special part of it.
The tree is perfect. Just as I promised.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Cardinal
Last night my dear neighbor brought over a delicious dinner of chicken and broccoli casserole together with a salad and a beautiful bouquet of flowers. It was so sweet of her to think of me. I am truly thankful for her food, understanding, and friendship. She is a life savor because I hadn't even opened the refrigerator to see what was in it since I returned home. Eating hasn't been on my mind although I know it is necessary. After arranging the flowers in one of my best vases, I sat down to an unexpected dinner with my husband, Gary. My neighbor is a good cook; the food tasted warm and comforting. Thank you Sandy.
I guess I'm officially in the mourning stage. Now that I am home, I no longer need to be strong. I can cry, feel sad, and remember my mother. Here at home I feel it is safe to let out my feelings. I'm trying but it is not easy. I've suppressed many of them for days.
I miss my father terribly and think of him almost every minute but I stop myself from calling him. I know he needs his mourning time too: alone. He is grieving much more than I am. I did get an e-mail from my brother today telling me that my father went swimming! I know this is a good sign but my heart aches at the thought of him putting his duffel bag together; saying good-by to the dog; driving alone to the fitness center; jumping into the pool. He is swimming bravely in a new sea of life. I know it is not one he chooses. Yet my heart sings at the thought of him striving to move on; one stroke at a time. I am proud of you, Dad.
I haven't unpacked my suitcases, combed my hair, washed my face or gotten dressed. I'm still wearing my pajamas from Wednesday night. Other than sleeping (a lot), I haven't done any thing. I feel no joy, no enthusiasm, no excitement, no 'anything.' I just feel numb. Is this normal? I'm guessing it is and my intuition tells me that I must endure it. Oddly enough, I don't feel depressed. Rather, I feel suspended somewhere in the time before my mother died and today: the present.
The doorbell just rang. A beautiful floral arrangement arrived. "Who is it from," my husband, asked. The loving arrangement of red roses, winter greenery, silver pine cones and red velvet ribbon was sent by two of my oldest and dearest friends here in St. Louis. Like sisters, we have always been there for each other; through the good times and the bad. Perched amid the rosebuds, a red feathered cardinal sat prominently placed on a spray of a silvery twig. I took this as a sign from my mother and wiped away my tears. For years Mom mailed me cardinal items; dishes, clothing, figurines, and even wind chimes (her favorite). My mother followed baseball and knew St. Louis was 'Cardinal' country. We are big fans as is anyone who lives in this city.
My mother is looking down on me. I feel her presence.
I guess I'm officially in the mourning stage. Now that I am home, I no longer need to be strong. I can cry, feel sad, and remember my mother. Here at home I feel it is safe to let out my feelings. I'm trying but it is not easy. I've suppressed many of them for days.
I miss my father terribly and think of him almost every minute but I stop myself from calling him. I know he needs his mourning time too: alone. He is grieving much more than I am. I did get an e-mail from my brother today telling me that my father went swimming! I know this is a good sign but my heart aches at the thought of him putting his duffel bag together; saying good-by to the dog; driving alone to the fitness center; jumping into the pool. He is swimming bravely in a new sea of life. I know it is not one he chooses. Yet my heart sings at the thought of him striving to move on; one stroke at a time. I am proud of you, Dad.
I haven't unpacked my suitcases, combed my hair, washed my face or gotten dressed. I'm still wearing my pajamas from Wednesday night. Other than sleeping (a lot), I haven't done any thing. I feel no joy, no enthusiasm, no excitement, no 'anything.' I just feel numb. Is this normal? I'm guessing it is and my intuition tells me that I must endure it. Oddly enough, I don't feel depressed. Rather, I feel suspended somewhere in the time before my mother died and today: the present.
The doorbell just rang. A beautiful floral arrangement arrived. "Who is it from," my husband, asked. The loving arrangement of red roses, winter greenery, silver pine cones and red velvet ribbon was sent by two of my oldest and dearest friends here in St. Louis. Like sisters, we have always been there for each other; through the good times and the bad. Perched amid the rosebuds, a red feathered cardinal sat prominently placed on a spray of a silvery twig. I took this as a sign from my mother and wiped away my tears. For years Mom mailed me cardinal items; dishes, clothing, figurines, and even wind chimes (her favorite). My mother followed baseball and knew St. Louis was 'Cardinal' country. We are big fans as is anyone who lives in this city.
My mother is looking down on me. I feel her presence.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Mixed Blessings
Although I knew it would not be easy to say "Good-by" to my father yesterday, the intensiveness of actually doing so still surprised me. I thought I would be strong, if only for him. When the time came I hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear. "I love you so much Daddy. Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I need you so."
He put his warm arms around me and he cried too. I don't know exactly what he said to me but I do remember that his words were comforting. I know he thanked me for everything I had done which certainly wasn't necessary. As I said before, the time I was able to spend with my mother at the end, and the days afterward with my father were gifts to me. None of them I could have anticipated or ever wished for in advance. Still, they were gifts that somehow God knew I needed to have. Gifts to hold in my heart and soul. Gifts given to me directly from the hearts of my parents; shared intimately with my own. Gifts that will be with me for the rest of my life. Appropriate I suppose for this Season of Joy. I am forever grateful.
It's true what people say about grief: it comes in waves. I find myself swimming in this unfamiliar sea at various times throughout each day, always unexpectedly. More since I've arrived home here in St. Louis. I no longer feel like I have to be the 'strong' one. No one ever put that upon me. I did it on my own. But now I feel it is safe to let go.
Each one of us will lose loved ones during our lifetimes. Knowing this doesn't make it any easier for me, but it does give me hope for the future. Like everyone else, somehow I will get through this.
In the end, grief is a mixed blessing.
He put his warm arms around me and he cried too. I don't know exactly what he said to me but I do remember that his words were comforting. I know he thanked me for everything I had done which certainly wasn't necessary. As I said before, the time I was able to spend with my mother at the end, and the days afterward with my father were gifts to me. None of them I could have anticipated or ever wished for in advance. Still, they were gifts that somehow God knew I needed to have. Gifts to hold in my heart and soul. Gifts given to me directly from the hearts of my parents; shared intimately with my own. Gifts that will be with me for the rest of my life. Appropriate I suppose for this Season of Joy. I am forever grateful.
It's true what people say about grief: it comes in waves. I find myself swimming in this unfamiliar sea at various times throughout each day, always unexpectedly. More since I've arrived home here in St. Louis. I no longer feel like I have to be the 'strong' one. No one ever put that upon me. I did it on my own. But now I feel it is safe to let go.
Each one of us will lose loved ones during our lifetimes. Knowing this doesn't make it any easier for me, but it does give me hope for the future. Like everyone else, somehow I will get through this.
In the end, grief is a mixed blessing.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Peace
Today I leave my parent's home. Now, it is only my father's home. It will be difficult to leave.
I am so happy that I have been able to be here for my dad, to help him transition towards his new life. A life without my mother. I was able to take calls for him, clean his house, do his laundry, cook his meals, take care of his dog, and make my mother's final arrangements with him.
This morning, I got out the dusty crock-pot from the bottom kitchen cupboard and left him the recipe book. I reminded him of the many, many times I called my mother whenever I needed help in cooking. It made him feel better to hear my 'permission' to call me for cooking tips whenever he needed.
Yesterday, my husband and I stopped at the local LA Fitness Club to purchase a membership for my dad. He expressed interest in swimming so we thought it would be a great outlet for my father. He will be able swim, lift weights, work with a personal trainer, and most importantly work out his grief in a healthy way.
Last night when we surprised him with his new gym bag and membership card he nearly broke down in tears. He's excited and a smile came to his face. To me, his expression was priceless. I know when I leave later today it will not be easy. Dad will be in his home alone for the very first time in over 57 years. Tonight when the sun sets behind the mountains and the desert becomes cold, it will be hard on him. Sounds of Dad's silent house will scream out at him, and he will grieve greatly. It is no comfort, but I know this is all part of the process. However difficult, my father must go through it.
I will try not to cry when I say "Good-by." Easier said than done, I'm sure. But I will be back to visit him soon. I know my brothers will watch over him during the Christmas season too, and on his birthday, December 25th. Every day I will call him. In my heart I feel my mother is watching over him from above.
Tomorrow may be harder for me. But today I feel at peace. I know I've done all I can.
For now.
I am so happy that I have been able to be here for my dad, to help him transition towards his new life. A life without my mother. I was able to take calls for him, clean his house, do his laundry, cook his meals, take care of his dog, and make my mother's final arrangements with him.
This morning, I got out the dusty crock-pot from the bottom kitchen cupboard and left him the recipe book. I reminded him of the many, many times I called my mother whenever I needed help in cooking. It made him feel better to hear my 'permission' to call me for cooking tips whenever he needed.
Yesterday, my husband and I stopped at the local LA Fitness Club to purchase a membership for my dad. He expressed interest in swimming so we thought it would be a great outlet for my father. He will be able swim, lift weights, work with a personal trainer, and most importantly work out his grief in a healthy way.
Last night when we surprised him with his new gym bag and membership card he nearly broke down in tears. He's excited and a smile came to his face. To me, his expression was priceless. I know when I leave later today it will not be easy. Dad will be in his home alone for the very first time in over 57 years. Tonight when the sun sets behind the mountains and the desert becomes cold, it will be hard on him. Sounds of Dad's silent house will scream out at him, and he will grieve greatly. It is no comfort, but I know this is all part of the process. However difficult, my father must go through it.
I will try not to cry when I say "Good-by." Easier said than done, I'm sure. But I will be back to visit him soon. I know my brothers will watch over him during the Christmas season too, and on his birthday, December 25th. Every day I will call him. In my heart I feel my mother is watching over him from above.
Tomorrow may be harder for me. But today I feel at peace. I know I've done all I can.
For now.
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