The World Continues to Spin and My Dad is Dying

Or Living in the Midst of it All

It’s Monday evening and I am making the list of all I have to do in my workshop tomorrow and my dad is dying.

I am trying to take care of the tasks in life that need to be taken care of, but I don’t know how to write about/think about/ feel about anything else in this moment. When something like this happens, it’s like pulling the one key Jenga stick out of the tower and letting the rest fall - there is only this stick. I don’t know how to process anything else.

And yet.

We got the call on Saturday from his nursing facility that he had taken a turn for the worse and so we’ve been back and forth, from home to his room to work and to the grocery store and back to sit with my dad again. As time passes, we are spending less time at work and home and now with him most of the time, sitting next to him, holding his hand, being there. When I do run out, I see the world continuing. I see a man scoop up his toddler in the Target parking lot and walk in, her giggle coming in waves to me as I walk behind them. The kind UPS man who delivers to our house almost everyday and who I am now on a first name basis waves hi to me across our yard as he drops a package off on our porch. I order a coffee from the barista who knows my face but not my name and she smiles and says hi and asks how I am and in all of these situations I just want to say, “My dad is dying.” Part of me wants to know how all of this continues on when the earth feels slightly off its axis.

But of course it does. There is a flower growing through the gravel of our driveway. There is sunlight on the forest floor. The tree has to let the leaves go for new growth. I have a couple of good friends who are therapists and one of the most valuable morsels I have gleaned from them is using the word “and”. It’s a beautiful day and my dad is dying. My daughter has a big speech to prepare for school and my dad is dying. There are people flying all over the world and babies continue to grow and my dad is dying. I am afraid AND I can do this. I am sad and I am rejoicing. I am crying while laughing about a roller coaster experience at Cedar Point with my dad when I was nine. Such is life.

Beauty and sadness, happiness and grief, war in one part of the world and peace in another. There will always be contrast. There will always be the duality of all of it. And I take so much peace and reassurance in that. Because even while I am holding my dad’s hand, I am remembering and laughing about so many memories of him. How adventurous our life growing up was, how crazy he could be, how he was rarely afraid of anything.

If I have moments of living fearlessly in this life, it is because of my dad. And so in that spirit, even though I am scared to live life without his physical presence, I am brave enough to let him go. He was never afraid to experience anything new in this life, always ready for any adventure - and I know this next step in his existence won’t be different. I know I can’t go with him on this one, but I know we will meet up again at another destination. I am sad and excited. I have grief and there is beauty. Heartache and love. He will be here and he won’t. It is all true. And I am here to bask in all of it.

I love you, Dad.