My Dad's Journey: Making Arrangements

As I do every weekday morning, I walk the dog and pick up the newspaper on my way. The owner of the store and his brother who fills in for him, have the three papers ready for me. I open the door, put my money on the counter, grab them and walk out. Getting the morning papers was something for years my dad would do. We are a newspaper reading family. He would read them and when finished, pass them to me. Dad would normally read four. I would skim three, but lately there hasn't been time or enthusiasm for me to read them at all.

This morning the owner's brother was there, and asked how my dad was, as he hadn't seen him in a while. I kept it together as I told him of his illness, but as I turned the corner for home, the tears came rolling down my face. Of all the days to ask me about my dad...it had to be today.

For days, I have known what I would be doing this morning. Something no one ever wants to do, but something that most of us will do in our lifetime.  Plan the funeral of one of your parents.

The simple fact is my father, while still alive...is failing. Rather than wait until he passes and make decisions clouded with the cloak of grief, my mother and I met today with the funeral director who has buried all my relatives ever since I can remember.

Although we thought we knew what we wanted...what he wanted, there were still so many decisions to be made. And, although we have the groundwork complete, some things are still undecided. My mother's strength amazes  me. At 82 and a cancer survivor herself, her composure, grace and never ending devotion to my father is an inspiration. It is however, taking a toll.

Later, after a much needed stress free few hours with my partner-in-crime the drum mamma, it was back to the hospital for the dinner visit. Mentally, tonight's visit was much better than the one I had yesterday, but physically he is breaking down...quickly.

The stronger pain meds seem to have calmed his anxiety a bit. They have also taken him to a place a little farther away mentally. And that is fine. While he can still speak and occasionally get complete sentences across, the truth is it has been painful to watch him struggle between what his mind is trying to say and what his body allows him to speak. While still coherent, he is now becoming more peaceful, as if he is aware the coming transition is something he can no longer fight.

The time has passed for recalling old memories with him or for telling him the things you had put off saying. Although I may no longer get a smile anymore when he sees me, when I kiss him goodnight and tell him I love him, I still hear the four words which get me through another day..."I love you too."

Love you Pops.

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