I'M READY

My dad died around 10:00 Friday morning. That would be 10:00 his time, 9:00 my time.

I think.

Since Friday was my daughter's birthday and we had planned on celebrating it on Saturday, we went ahead with our plans, with the blessings of my siblings and my step mother, Marilyn.

So I did not get over there to be with my brothers and sister and step mom, until Sunday.

I felt very detached and incomplete all weekend. I DID NOT FOR ONE MOMENT resent the celebration of my daughter's birthday, in fact it was a happy distraction for me. But there was a longing within me all day Friday and Saturday.

A longing that started to melt away Sunday morning when I finally walked into my dad's house and found first one brother, then my sister, then my other brother, and was able to finally, FINALLY be in their arms and let our sadness melt together.

We would not even be considered that close, as siblings go, I guess.

But nothing glues us together like grief.

And it felt so good. So good to finally press our heads together and weep without words. Because nobody, nobody feels it like we do. Our history is too painful; our past is too stained, for anybody to know this pain but us. Our pain is not worse than the pain of others who have lost a parent. But it is unique. Boy is it unique.

On Sunday at 1:00 we had a private viewing, just us kids, our families and Marilyn before the cremation. What is there to say about a viewing? You all know how painful they are. This was different in that we did not have to line up by the casket and "greet" those who came to pay respects. We simply huddled in our grief and tried to believe with our hearts what our eyes were telling us.

That he is gone.

Each of us has our own scars and pain from our childhood and the divorce of our parents. They could fill a book. My oldest brother is a man of few words, a gentle spirit, who carries a sadness about him that, I believe, is due to his utter disappointment in the way things were in our lives; mainly with our dad. He did not get a final moment with Dad, like the rest of us did. He spent the night at the hospital two weeks ago and when Dad rebounded he headed home. He had made plans to visit dad tomorrow. He thought he had more time.

We all thought we had more time.

At the viewing, he waited until the rest of us had left the room and he was left with only his wife. I turned back to look at him and saw him begin to weep. I knew he wanted to be left alone.

But I could not leave him in that room weeping for our dad.

So I went to him and he said "He wanted to talk to me, and I didn't make it back."

And I said "Even the doctors could not have told us how quickly he would go. None of us knew. There was no way in the world you could have known you didn't have FIVE MORE DAYS." You know? Words that were meant to encourage but probably sounded hollow and meaningless. And my other brother came to us and reminded him of the things Dad had said about him and the way he raised his family and accomplished things he couldn't, like maintaining a loving, close relationship with his children.

He felt rushed to leave and let us move on, so I just kept saying "Take your time. Take your time."

After a couple of minutes, he wiped his face, took a deep breath and said "I'm ready."

For as long as I live, I will remember looking back into that room and seeing my oldest brother break down, and then feeling drawn to him, as if I could rescue him. For as long as I live I will remember my oldest brother, taking a deep breath and saying "I'm ready."

I'm ready.

Except he wasn't.

None of us was.


I struggled all weekend with thoughts of my dad's final moments. I worried incessantly that his last moments of life were filled with terror. I imagined a hundred different scenarios, each more painful than the last. But I was able to get a little peace when my aunt took me aside to talk to me and she quietly told me what his last moments were like. How he started to bleed at home. How it was worse than any of his other episodes (and I will spare you the details) so she knew he was probably close to the end of life. How he struggled for just a few moments and suddenly became calm right before he lost consciousness. My aunt estimates that from the time the bleeding started until he lost consciousness, only about 3 minutes passed.

Three minutes. It is a long time to be robbed of your breath. But it gives me comfort to know that his body was not battered by machines and needles for hours as he fought for life. It gives me comfort to know that he lost consciousness at home and never saw the inside of the emergency room again. I can get the images of a violent death out of my mind now. I hope.

And now I find myself wondering if he knew. Did he know that this was the end of his life. Did he know that it was time, that it was OK for him to stop fighting?

Did he allow himself to simply say "I'm ready."