I choked up at the frozen food aisle when I was shopping tonight. I haven't cried in a grocery store in a very long time, but tonight I did. It was the frozen dinners.
My dad's been dead almost ten years now, but I guess even when you think you're done grieving, you're not. There's still lingering regret to deal with.
It was a rough time, my dad's illness. His actual illness was fairly merciful, for cancer. After seeing what my mom had gone through just a little over a year before, we were both grateful that dad wasn't in pain, wasn't terrified, just slowly dwindled until he drifted away altogether.
We were both still in shock over Mom, and I think he took some strange comfort in the thought that he wouldn't be apart from her long. I didn't have that - I knew I'd be left to deal with it all in a way I just couldn't deal with it as it happened. There was too much to do.
I was working full time, my kids were teenagers, I was an only child - there were no brothers or sisters to call on for help. So I raced through the days like a robot, trying to do everything that was needed and keep a brave face on for everyone. I did a lousy job, I know now, but I tried really hard.
Each night, before making dinner for the family, I walked across the driveway to Dad's apartment and made him dinner. I sat with him while he ate it and we chatted. I was the only company he had all day unless you count the nurses as he got sicker. He really looked forward to me stopping by on my lunch hour and spending a half an hour or maybe an hour in the evening. I didn't mind, either.
But I didn't really cook. I guess I did a few nights a week, but today in that freezer aisle I remember how he'd ask me to get a particular brand of frozen dinner because he really liked it. He'd ask for them a few times every week.
What he liked was knowing that it wouldn't taste bad and I wouldn't have to cook it. He knew I was running on empty. And today was the first time I realized it.
We didn't get along at all when I was growing up, my dad and I. I think maybe we were too much alike in all the worst possible ways - insecurity,sensitivity, neuroses. I didn't want to be like him. I wanted to be like my mom.
All the defenses dropped at the end for both of us, and we liked each other a lot. And I'm sorry, so sorry, now, that I wasn't able to make him amazing, tasty meals every single night.
But I was so lucky. The night before he died I had the chance to ask him, "Did I do alright, Dad?" And he said in the strong voice I hadn't heard in a long time, "You did great." I guess he knew I did the best I could.
I just wish I could have done better. He was a good man.
3 comments:
Oh, Susan, you give voice to the doubts we all feel when looking back at these experiences.
I cried as I read this beautiful post, so filled with love. I cried, too, because I'm just beginning to review my own role in helping my mother to make the transition to her new realm.
Did we do enough? I'm convinced we did all that we could, and that is enough for our loved ones.
My mother's been gone just a few weeks. To think I'll still be revisiting the pain ten years from now is surreal. I guess it never really resolves.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Jo, I'm sorry about your mom. I can tell you that although it does still hurt terribly all this time later, the pain is less sharp and far less frequent. Instead of that constant ache, it's an occasional sting.
More and more, you'll remember whatever good things there are to remember. And be glad you were there for her.
Big hug.
S
Kia ora Susan
I really enjoyed this post and I can fully get the overwhelming feelings that catch us out when we least expect it. My father died of cancer and our relationship wasn't very good. It was only after my son was born that I realised what he must have gone through and I had so many questions for him - about me. It may be a good thing that he wasn't around - I may not have liked the answers - certainly based on most of our interactions that would have been likely.
Yet through all the pain and hurt I still love him and miss him.
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