Dreams for my father

A few months ago, Dad and I shared a touching moment together, one that I still hold dear.  It was in May, just before Mom and Dad were due to fly Denver via a Williams Energy flight.  We were crying together in his Honda, the first time I really cried with him.  He was confiding in me his fear of losing Mom and Craig, and of being alone.   At one point, I reached out to rest my hand on his shoulder.  It was then I saw him as a man, and not just my father.  As we cried, he told me how he couldn't fathom losing both his wife and son.  In between hiccups, he said how hard it was for him to see his wife fade away before his eyes.  He wondered how he was going to be able to get through her passing, and how he would pick up the pieces of his life after she was gone. 

During our conversation, he also expressed his hesitation about traveling to Denver to see Craig, a hesitation we all felt at the time.  A sick wife is one thing, but a sick wife and son are simply more than a man can reasonably bear.  For a parent to survive a son is a unique kind of grief.  It's impossible to understand how it must feel for a parent to see a child suffer, and be powerless to stop it.  Like any father, Dad was torn.  He wanted to be strong for Craig, but, at the same time, he didn't want Craig to see him break down.    

That he confided his feelings in me was touching, and against the norm of things.  Our society teaches men to be stoic, and fathers to be strong.  I felt honored to be in the seat next to him, listening as he honestly expressed his feelings as they came.  Despite initial reservations, Dad is here in Denver.  He was here with Mom when it mattered most, and has been by Craig's side.  There's no script for living with this kind of grief, but he's doing the best he can.  I know Craig appreciates his presence.  He said the other day that he "enjoys talking with Dad" and that what Dad says "means a lot."  He looks up to him and admires his perspectives.  Mostly, he appreciates having him here.  Though I know it's difficult for Dad to see Craig so sick, it's important that he's with him by his side.   

Four months after our conversation, and three months after Mom's death, I still remember Dad's words.  I remember how he looked as the tears fell.  And I remember how I felt.  Though we've talked about our grief as a family, I still wonder how Dad is doing.  Fears of loneliness and feelings of loss are profound for Dad, as they are for all of us.  But grieving a partner is different from grieving the loss of a parent. 

Though we're here for him, the widower's journey is ultimately private and deeply personal.  Dad didn't just lose his wife of thirty-six years; he lost his best friend, his buddy, his confident, and his first love.  Future plans have been lost to time and cancer.  While our lives of love and companionship still lie ahead of us, Mom was Dad's life.  As he has said, he built his entire life around her; there are aspects of Mom that only Dad knows.  The bond between husband and wife is strong.  For Mom and Dad, that bond was indestructible.  Like many, their union wasn't without incident, but they decided long ago that they'd persevere and weather the rocky times for their love was worth keeping.  We will never truly know the depth of that love, or the fears, hopes and dreams that only they shared.  There will be aspects of his grief that I will never fully understand, as well as those that he will choose to keep private.  Just as the grief of losing a spouse is unique, so too is the grief over the loss of a child.  Craig's death will create yet another unique layer, and though we'll be there to listen, there will be aspects that we won't completely understand. 

There will come a point when there will be the four of us, just trying to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.  We'll make it through, but it will be different.  For the first time in thirty-six years, our house on Skyline will be quiet with memories of shared lives and love filling the extra spaces.  While the memories may offer comfort, Dad will have to rediscover what it's like to live alone.  As much as it feels natural for the four of us to be together, there will come a time when we'll disperse to chase dreams and resume our independence. 

What then?  What happens to Dad?  How does someone move on after losing a lifelong partner, a best friend, a lover?  How does one say goodbye to long held plans and future expectations?  How does one grieve the loss of a wife, and then grieve again with the loss of a son - and so soon, without preparation or time to make sense of it all?  Mom was the hub of our lives, and Craig the ever trusty spoke.  How does someone pick up the pieces of their life and begin again?  How will he handle living in our house now that two of the five rooms will be permanently empty, and the space beside him on his bed cold?  Will he reengage once shared activities or discard them altogether?  Will he pick up new hobbies?  Will he go back to work?  Or perhaps find love? 

He's said before that he doesn't know how he'll move on with his life, but nearing seventy, he's fearful of a life alone.  In my heart, I know Dad will be okay, but after caring for Craig and Mom, my first instinct is to move back to Stillwater and care for Dad.  It breaks my heart to imagine him living alone.  But at some point, we must continue with our lives, and Dad must continue with his.  He wouldn't want, nor expect, us to put our lives on hold for him.  Still, I feel some aspect of guilt that, at some point, we'll all disperse, leaving Dad to manage his new life alone.  It's a battle of managing expectations, and mostly my own. 

I dream, in time, he finds happiness, friendship, and perhaps love.  I dream he'll continue to go on long afternoon walks; laugh at silly movies; travel and live out retirement plans just as Mom would have wanted.  I dream he'll continue to open his heart and his grief as he did four months ago.  I dream that someday he'll walk us down the aisle, see his little girls become mothers, and teach our children how to kick soccer balls as he did with us when we were young.  I dream he'll find wisdom and understanding in all this loss.  And I dream that, in time, the grief will be less raw.  I dream this for us all, but mostly, I dream it for Dad.     

I've said before that we'll get through this -- in time.  There's energy left for one more rally - a rally for a family that's been through hell and back.  That rally will be long and sustained, and will require all that we have left.  It will be important that we take time for our own grief process, and that we find a balance between comforting each other while also dealing with our own loss.  But, there's energy left; this, I know.  -- J