I remember the telephone. It was black and cordless. It was a big deal when we first got that phone. We'd had a regular phone, the one with the old-fashioned rotating dial for a long time. It finally died and we finally got a more modern one. It was still big and clunky though - this was the time before cell phones the size of a small tv remote.
On the night he died, I took that phone into the backyard, where the stars shone brightly in a crisp sky and called my Uncle.
"Can you come? Dad isn't doing very well"
I was trying not to cry. Tears would come later. He died before my Uncle got there. He died while we stood there, me clutching that damn phone. He just stopped breathing. Gone. For some reason I thought there would be an epic struggle. He would fight for life, and death would indulge him, knowing who the victor would be. But he didn't struggle. The struggle had taken place for months. Months of doctors, of radiation treatment, of hair loss, of carers traipsing in and out of our home, of a gradual weakening of body and spirit.
Who could blame him? I remember after he took his last breath. I remember starting to cry, really cry. Then she looked at me, looking into me and I knew I had to stop. I had to curb my grief so she could grieve. I sometimes think I am still curbing my grief so she can grieve. She didn't ask me to do this, or expect me to do it. Somehow I decided her loss was greater than mine. I still believe that, four years on.
Sometimes the sheer magnitude of my loss overwhelms me and I am convinced it is a loss I will never truly recover from. He died that night, but so did a part of me. I was altered forever. That girl, clutching that phone, watching her father die no longer exists. You see, when you know - really know - that death eventually claims all, you look at life differently. It has darker undertones. You become more comfortable with the notion of death. You don't look away, you don't 'not think about it'. I have met death and I am not frightened. Another side effect of an unimaginable loss - you know that you can live through anything, even the unlivable.
We no longer have that cordless phone.
10 comments:
I would love to reach out and say something that would be of comfort, but here, I feel there is nothing to be said but just that. Thanks for sharing this.
I can understand this. My parents, and every auntie and uncle are long gone.
They're always missed, and you're right, you have a deeper understanding of death.
the power of grief to be overwhelming, take over your body and soul resonates so stongly --- i very recently lost as well, and they tell me i will emerge from this and be ok but different --- but struggling through each day moment by moment is truly difficult - thanks for sharing!
Thanks for sharing your grief. Beautiful.
what a strong powerful expression. thank you for sharing your true self.
Tearful post for me. I was an orphan at 35 and then soon after all my aunts and uncles were gone too!It changes you, but I promise it will get better. At times you visit it, like I did in my poem. For a moment in time you reflect on the loss, but mostly the good memories sustain you!
The legacy lives on in my child whose attributes are similar, and I'm grateful for a chance to understand things I missed when
they were alive!
Big hugs of comfort to you!
Sherrie
Who, at my age, cannot relate to this? I still miss my parents after many decades, and especially my baby brother (5 years younger but 56 years old when he died) who I had expected to be around to share memories in our old age.
This a beautifully and movingly written post.
this was so moving beautiful, it must have been difficult writing it, I hope sharing it has brought you comfort. You can just see the kindness in your dads face.
Thank you for posting the picture of your dad to go with your reflections on the phone. I found myself wanting to throw that cordless away as I read your story that reveals strong emotion so well and yet is sensitive to the impact his death had on you and your mother. Your insights suggest writing has helped you. I hope so.
Thank you for sharing this...my Nanna died 8 days ago. You have captured the feelings of grief so well. I would love to type something meaningful or beautiful but I am still in the early stages of shock, denial and devastation. So.....Thank you.
Post a Comment