Nine days remain until the anniversary of my father’s passing, a date that marks the end of a year filled with bittersweet memories. In this time of mourning, I’ve found solace in reflecting on our moments together, often using last year’s events as a guide. I recall how, on this day, we shared laughter, and I can trace my footsteps through the past year by recognizing familiar receipts or recalling the meals we enjoyed. Just two days from now, I remember our last conversation over a pre-season football game, where he savored a hearty meal, and we all encouraged him to eat to regain his strength as he battled his illness.
That evening, as the Bears lost, he expressed his frustration, a reminder of his spirited personality. I remember lying on the couch beside him, ensuring he received his medication on time. The hospice nurse had warned us about the “breakthrough pain” that could arise without consistent dosing. He resisted the hospital bed, a symbol of his fading health, but I assured him it would be more comfortable, like coaxing a child into bed.
The following day, while his body remained present, his spirit seemed to drift away. He attempted to fulfill basic needs but was lost in a haze, his gaze distant from ours. He lay on a familiar mattress, surrounded by the pillows he’d arranged each night, but his eyes closed, signaling a new understanding of the term “unresponsive.”
Encouraged by a friend whose father had recently passed, I held his phone to his ear so family members could express their love, while I silently wept, reassuring him that we would be okay. I tried to keep the atmosphere light, reminding him with a smile that I would manage everything, “The Vickster has it all under control,” I said, recalling how he affectionately called me that.
When my sons visited to say their goodbyes, their tear-streaked faces spoke volumes. I cheered, announcing their arrival with the nicknames he bestowed upon them, hoping to elicit a smile. His breathing grew labored as the week progressed. On advice from family, I stepped out for a moment, allowing him space, and as I kissed his forehead, the radio that played his favorite oldies suddenly fell silent—a poignant signal of farewell. He passed shortly thereafter.
Now, a bag of frozen peas lingers in my freezer, untouched since he cooked his favorite dish—rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. That plastic bag, secured with a rubber band, occupies a corner of the freezer, a constant reminder of that shared meal and the memories we forged. As I navigate through the fast-paced rhythm of life, I find it hard to believe that almost a year has elapsed since I lost my vibrant father.
Though many assure me that the pain will lessen, and perhaps it has, I still find myself holding onto that bag of peas. Maybe once I reach day 366, I’ll finally decide what to do with them. But for now, I have nine more days to reflect.
Further Reading
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In summary, as I continue to navigate the grief of losing my father, the small tokens of our shared moments—like the bag of peas—serve as reminders of love and connection. Time moves forward, and while the memories may remain bittersweet, they also offer a path toward healing.
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