Walking with Grief

My father was recently diagnosed with cancer of the lining around his left lung. At this point the cancer is seemingly slow growing, yet the doctor has given him a guesstimated end of life in 6-12 months. He would not survive surgery and chemotherapy is not an option he will consider. Dad is 87 years old, which he is pleased with, as he outlived both of his parents by a few years.

He is in surprisingly good spirits for someone who has just been told this news. He explained that death is a normal part of life and he does not want to “live” to be old and in poor health. Dad has enjoyed a life well-lived, and has not felt the need to deviate from the life plan or moral fiber that his soul intended. We have talked about him being reunited with loved ones who have passed before him and life after life. Dad has always had a strong reverence for the Divine, so he is truly not afraid to die.

So, my brain says there is no reason to feel sad when my Dad is ok with how the ending of his life will most likely play out. My heart, however is not completely convinced. Nope, I don’t want him to suffer. Maybe I all too clearly remember the helpless desperation of watching two other loved ones succumbing to cancer. Maybe I selfishly just don’t want to go through that again. I don’t want to watch my mother live alone after 65 years of married life together. And ultimately, I don’t want to lose my dad. It doesn’t feel like I have had that long with him as it is.

Dad was a distant workaholic when I was growing up. We were not sure he ever wanted kids, as it really wasn’t evident. But here he was with four of us anyway. All of us fearful, alienated and unsure if he loved us. Most of the time I remained small and invisible in juxtaposition to his large, powerful, yet invisible self. When he participated in family life it was as the angry, yet detached disciplinarian. Our mother was the nurturer, communicator and go-between.

When I was 30 years old I moved back to Colorado determined to recreate the father-daughter relationship I wanted. I didn’t really care if he wanted it or not, I just knew I needed it. My three siblings could have whatever level of dysfunction worked for them, but I knew what I needed to do. I ended up working near my father’s place of employment. When he was in his 50s he had to give up driving due to health concerns; I gritted my teeth and volunteered to drive him to and from work. I was afraid to be that close to him physically for fear of condemnation or intense discomfort and wanting to crawl out of my skin. He was surprised that I would offer my time to be of service to him. As a young adult I provided a bridge for both of us to cross over the chasm.

Our time together in the car opened the door to conversations that wouldn’t have been had if I allowed myself to stay hurt and distant. After a while, our time together was not as forced or awkward, and I gave myself permission to forgive him for not being the father I wished he was while I was growing up. At times I felt like I was betraying my hurt inner self or my siblings, but at the same time, this was exactly what my “self” had been longing for. I stopped seeing him for what he wasn’t and embraced him for what he was. This shift allowed us both to heal and create a relationship in “real time.” Here we are 25 years later and my dad and I are able to talk freely, joke and discuss everything from politics to spirituality. As my mother’s hearing loss progresses, Dad is the one to talk on the phone or serve as the communicator and go-between.

I am incredibly thankful I moved back to Colorado to be in relationship with my parents. As we move through Dad’s cancer, my sister and I plan to be there for him and with him and my brothers will do what they are able to. I want my daughters to see that this is what relationship looks like… hope, forgiveness, growth, love, and sometimes grief.