“I wasn’t sad. I was relieved.”
About a year ago, when Dad’s health really took a turn for the worse and before I had committed myself to taking care of him, I began calling him every day. There has been only one occasion on which I have gone a day without checking in on him.
Two weeks back, I gave him a call and there was no answer. I called the next morning and again, no answer. Where could he possibly be, I wondered.
Dead, obviously.
Soon the visiting nurses will call, I’ll have to go out there, and I’d see his lifeless body while whoever else I find in the house will repeatedly and annoyingly tell me how sorry they feel. I decided that I’d beat them to the punch, I canceled my afternoon plans, and I started to drive the 35 miles from my apartment to his house.
A friend of mine took care of both her mother and her brother as they died with cancer. I asked her if she was sad when they finally died. “I was relieved. I did all of my mourning while I was taking care of them. I just felt relief for them. I felt relief for me.”
I thought about that as I drove out to his house. Like my friend, I felt relief for my father. Like my friend, I felt relief for myself.
I drove and felt clever for beating the hospice workers to whole awkward situation.
Half way there, my phone rang, and it was obviously Dad.
“How are you,” I asked. “Where have you been?”
“I fell asleep in the car, in the garage. It was warm and comfortable and I closed my eyes and I slept.”
