Just nine more days. Nine days until I can finally put to rest my habit of aligning this year’s events with those from last year. The anniversary of my father’s passing is approaching. Over the past year, I found solace in reflecting on the days he was still with us; I could often say, “A year ago today, we did this,” or find receipts from shopping trips where I bought his favorite foods. I remember the laughter we shared, and in just two days, I’ll recall our last conversation while we watched a pre-season football game together. He had a hearty meal that evening, and we were all relieved to see him eat. “You need to keep your strength up,” we reminded him, watching as he gradually faded away.
That night, the game didn’t go well, and in typical fashion, he turned off the TV in frustration, critiquing the players’ performance. I made myself comfortable on the couch beside him, ready to administer his medication at the right times. The hospice nurse had warned us about “breakthrough pain”—a sudden and intense discomfort that could strike if we didn’t keep him medicated with morphine. He resisted sleeping on the hospital bed we had set up, treating it like another reminder of his illness. “You’ll feel more at ease in this bed, Dad. It’s easier to get in and out of,” I fibbed, manipulating the controls as if I were talking to a child.
He slept soundly that night, but the next day, he was no longer truly there. His body remained, but his spirit was distant, trying to perform the same routines he had for decades. He wanted to use the bathroom, to drink, to take his medicine. He moved his feet one last time, lost in a haze, disconnected from us. He lay on the plastic mattress, surrounded by the pillows he meticulously arranged each night until he found comfort. His eyes closed, and at that moment, I grasped the meaning of a new term: unresponsive.
“Be careful what you say; he can still hear you,” a friend advised me after experiencing a similar loss. Her father had responded to her the day before he passed, despite being labeled “unresponsive.” Taking her words to heart, I shooed nurses from the room when they mentioned how much time he had left or commented on his deteriorating condition. I held the phone to his ear as family members spoke words of love from afar. I learned how to cry quietly so he wouldn’t hear me. I reassured him we’d be alright and tried to keep the mood light, joking, “You raised an incredible daughter, so I’ve got everything under control.” He used to call me “The Vickster.”
When my three sons came in to say their goodbyes, they stood by his bedside, overwhelmed with emotion. “Dad, the boys are here,” I announced cheerfully, introducing them with their special nicknames: “Jackson the Brave, Max the Magnificent, and Brody the Bold.” He smiled at them, and in that moment, it felt like we were all connecting.
As the week progressed, his breathing became more labored. On a Friday afternoon, my family suggested I step out for a while. “He might hold on if you’re here,” they said. The sun streamed through the blinds as a soft tune played from his favorite oldies station. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and promised to return after a good night’s sleep. When I stood to leave, the radio made a soft popping sound and fell silent. I froze, believing it was a final sign. He passed early the next morning.
Now, there’s still half a bag of frozen peas in my freezer, a remnant from over a year ago. My father spent the last six months of his life living with us and sometimes found the energy to cook. One night, he made his beloved rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. I haven’t touched that bag since because it represents a cherished memory. Folded over and secured with a thick rubber band, it sits tucked away in the corner of the freezer. Whenever I rummage through for ice cream or waffles, I often pause to see it and remember.
Time moves swiftly, and it’s hard to believe that it’s nearly been a year since I lost my vibrant, larger-than-life father. Yet the human spirit has an incredible ability to push us forward, seeking a return to normalcy. Many have told me, “It gets easier; the first year is the toughest.” It has indeed become easier, but maybe on day 366, I’ll finally decide what to do with those peas.
But I still have nine more days.
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