Aftermath
By M on Thursday 4 September 2008, 00:48 - Journal - Permalink
Although I needed to sleep quite badly, I instead got ready to go and see dad
one last time. I made sure I had breakfast first, then drove up to my office to
get the funeral papers. From there I drove across Sydney to the retirement
home. noting with some amusement that I took a slightly longer route than I
should have. Obviously my mind is not entirely on what I am doing.
I often wondered how I would feel at this time, and now I know. The unexpected aspect is the variability. One moment I feel perfectly composed and practical, and the next I have a lump in my throat and am fighting back tears that I never thought I would shed. I kept saying to myself 'my dad died this morning', but it seemed almost to have no import.
When I got to the retirement village I gave the undertaker's contact details to the manager there, and then said I would like to go and see dad. She left me alone with him. This was my first real experience with a dead body, but it did not seem strange at all. Even the paradoxical facts that dad as we knew him was finally and irreversibly gone, but that everything physical was still there, looking very much as he had looked these last few days, did not seem disturbing. In fact, there was nothing scary about it at all, and I had no qualms about touching the body as if dad were still alive. I even said, aloud in the empty room, 'dad, if you can still hear me, this really is goodbye'. An amazing response for an avowed atheist and philosophical materiallst.
Dad's face was already looking slightly yellower, and his skin had that waxy pallor that I have read about so many times. His eyes were still half open, and his mouth agape, just as he had been all night. And now, I recalled that for a long time this morning, in the hours just before he died, there had been a tear on his face, just less than an inch from the corner of his left eye. I'd seen it there and attributed it to a purely physiological reaction, the eye protecting itself while not being able to benefit from frequent blinking. Now I wonder about that tear, and I wonder just what he knew about his situation in the last few hours. Was he aware of his own imminent death, and was he holding it back to spare us, or was he simply intent on not dying with someone watching him? Was he still able to hear and think, and know that he couldn't answer, and impotently burn against the frustration of this? We will never know and it is pointless to speculate.
Afterwards, I went to see mum. Although the residents in her section were involved in a communal activity, mum was sitting alone, at a table, with half a glass of orange juice in front of her. She looked terribly weary. I said to her: 'you look as if you've been up all night, too, mum.'
She smiled and mumbled a few things to me. I felt so sad for her; unable to appreciate her loss after all these years, blissfully ignorant of the loss, in just the last few months, of her best friend Ruth, her husband of 65 years, her house and all her belongings.
I got up after just five minutes and said goodbye to her. I don't think we should even try to start telling her what has happened.
Next, I went to mum and dad's house, and collected the mail. It made me realise we have a significant mopping-up operation ahead of us now: informing organisations that dad has died, and so on.
And after that I headed home, stopping on the way to buy milk and bread, and indulging myself with an ice-cream, which I ate sitting in the car in the car park. Feeling that after all that has happened, I just wanted to indulge myself with a simple trivial pleasure.
It was mid-afternoon when I got home. I finally went to bed for a few hours, to awake later feeling strangely dislocated, in a kind of limbo. I've been busying myself with small tasks that can be done on the computer, such as writing this entry and sending the recent photographs to those to whom they will mean the most.
It appears very likely that all of Derek's family, currently in Moscow, Munich and England will be flying out here over the weekend for the funeral which we anticipate will be held early next week.
I often wondered how I would feel at this time, and now I know. The unexpected aspect is the variability. One moment I feel perfectly composed and practical, and the next I have a lump in my throat and am fighting back tears that I never thought I would shed. I kept saying to myself 'my dad died this morning', but it seemed almost to have no import.
When I got to the retirement village I gave the undertaker's contact details to the manager there, and then said I would like to go and see dad. She left me alone with him. This was my first real experience with a dead body, but it did not seem strange at all. Even the paradoxical facts that dad as we knew him was finally and irreversibly gone, but that everything physical was still there, looking very much as he had looked these last few days, did not seem disturbing. In fact, there was nothing scary about it at all, and I had no qualms about touching the body as if dad were still alive. I even said, aloud in the empty room, 'dad, if you can still hear me, this really is goodbye'. An amazing response for an avowed atheist and philosophical materiallst.
Dad's face was already looking slightly yellower, and his skin had that waxy pallor that I have read about so many times. His eyes were still half open, and his mouth agape, just as he had been all night. And now, I recalled that for a long time this morning, in the hours just before he died, there had been a tear on his face, just less than an inch from the corner of his left eye. I'd seen it there and attributed it to a purely physiological reaction, the eye protecting itself while not being able to benefit from frequent blinking. Now I wonder about that tear, and I wonder just what he knew about his situation in the last few hours. Was he aware of his own imminent death, and was he holding it back to spare us, or was he simply intent on not dying with someone watching him? Was he still able to hear and think, and know that he couldn't answer, and impotently burn against the frustration of this? We will never know and it is pointless to speculate.
Afterwards, I went to see mum. Although the residents in her section were involved in a communal activity, mum was sitting alone, at a table, with half a glass of orange juice in front of her. She looked terribly weary. I said to her: 'you look as if you've been up all night, too, mum.'
She smiled and mumbled a few things to me. I felt so sad for her; unable to appreciate her loss after all these years, blissfully ignorant of the loss, in just the last few months, of her best friend Ruth, her husband of 65 years, her house and all her belongings.
I got up after just five minutes and said goodbye to her. I don't think we should even try to start telling her what has happened.
Next, I went to mum and dad's house, and collected the mail. It made me realise we have a significant mopping-up operation ahead of us now: informing organisations that dad has died, and so on.
And after that I headed home, stopping on the way to buy milk and bread, and indulging myself with an ice-cream, which I ate sitting in the car in the car park. Feeling that after all that has happened, I just wanted to indulge myself with a simple trivial pleasure.
It was mid-afternoon when I got home. I finally went to bed for a few hours, to awake later feeling strangely dislocated, in a kind of limbo. I've been busying myself with small tasks that can be done on the computer, such as writing this entry and sending the recent photographs to those to whom they will mean the most.
It appears very likely that all of Derek's family, currently in Moscow, Munich and England will be flying out here over the weekend for the funeral which we anticipate will be held early next week.
Comments
I am so deeply sorry for your loss. You did a wonderful thing for readers (like me) whose families will face a similar thing in the near future. You shared, you explained, you wondered, you kept meticulous notes - and are taking your precious time (at such a busy time) to keep everyone updated. Thank you and wishing you strength isn't enough - but it is mostly all I can say to you.
Please take care of yourself, make time for yourself, sleep as you need - and indulge yourself in more ice creams, if that continues to help.
I hope you can find time to share and enjoy a visit with the relatives from England.
I am so sorry for your loss. I remember finding your blog for the first time, years ago. Your parents were both living at home, and they both had Alzheimer's, though your mother was much worse off than your dad. I remember thinking what an impossibly tough situation that presented. We had just, I laugh...just, my father to care for with Alzheimer's and it exhausted his spouse, my six siblings and me.
Your blog taught me much, you made me laugh and cry, but mostly, you made me feel like Australia was right across the street. Thank you for all of it. I especially remember the hike you took with your father and Greg. He had so much gear that you wound up carrying it for him, right? And you were so pissed. I think that's how the story went, at least that's what I remember. And all the effort you went to with the key for the lock, and the remote camera and so much more. You have written a deep, rich account.
I hope you will continue blogging about your mom. And I agree completely to not try to make her aware of any of it, not that you could if you wanted. Alzheimer's does have a tiny bit of mercy, in that the pain of losing others is dulled by the loss of one's own identity.
I imagine another stool being added to the Elsewhere.
You and yours are in my thoughts.
Patty
Dear Mike
I know that even though you were prepared for the inevitable, you will still grieve for the loss of a loved one. It seems to me that your Dad did a pretty good job in raising you and your siblings. One can only hope that he did not suffer when he left this world. I think you are right in keeping the news from your mum.
My thoughts are with you.