A Universal Experience: Losing Someone You Love

Apr 2

My Dad was accepted for hospice care just days before his 90th Birthday. He had been agitated even if his overall health had not seemed to be worse. At the end of the interview with the doctor who assessed him, it became clear to me why. He had set a goal for himself to live to 90, and he was so concerned about not living those last few days and not succeeding in achieving his goal.

On March 12, 2023 we did celebrate his 90th birthday with an odd array of people to celebrate with him. (When you live to 90, you outlive most of your friends.) He thoroughly enjoyed it. My Dad was to live for another three months, and I continue to process his absence like most people do, when we lose someone so integral to who we are.

In many ways my Dad was extraordinary and uncomplicated. He was gregarious and quiet. He was brave and afraid. (He was never quite comfortable with the whole idea of dying). He was easy going and stubborn. Like all of us, I think, he had many ways that he showed up in the world.

The dying process – the last part where it’s just a matter of hours or days – took a lot longer than we imagined. And I found that hard. (We need to talk more about that so that families are better prepared.) It is also the only time I dismissed what the wonderful people at Hospice said to us. They said that some people prefer to die alone, and so we should give him time to be alone.

I know they were right about some people – but not my Dad. My Dad’s dying process included his own processing of losing his own family – “traveling” away from us. I think that is why it took his dying process so long. During the first many days of the dying process, my Mom, sister, brother and I were almost always in the house, nearby. But, as the process continued, we began to need to take care of things, and so it was more likely than not that one or two of us were absent from the house during the day. Yet, he died during the day during a rare time when all of us were present. I know that is what he wanted.

My situation is both uniquely mine, and a loss that is shared universally. The expectations of what grief is to look like or feel like often don’t match reality. I started writing this blog without a specific goal in mind. (In truth, I just wanted to write about my Dad.)

But it leads me here:

Goals are powerful. My Dad in many ways should not have lived to 90. I would not describe my Dad as being goal-driven in life. He wasn’t a Type A personality. But, when he deemed something important, he strove to achieve it. I don’t really know what his reason was for wanting to reach the age of 90 – but most goals are infinitely personal. I am actually really proud of him for reaching that age – because I do think he had something to do with that.
We are all rather difficult to describe. I do wonder what words people would use to describe me. I imagine there are polar opposite descriptions appropriate for me too. It reminds me not to try to boil people down to narrow descriptions. People are amazing, and even people that I may disagree with on many important levels will often surprise me with ways that we are closely aligned. I have often taught that rapport is the “perception of similarity” - but sometimes we need to wait for it, or even search for it.
Relying on experts is comforting and affirming. Hospice nurses, doctors, social workers, and ministers each played an important role in my Dad’s last months. We longed for their knowledge and comfort and predictions. And, I did not reject my own firm belief that my Dad did not want to die alone despite that expertise. I believe I was right versus just coincidence that his last breaths occurred with his entire family by his side. Trust yourself. There are other times in my life where I wish I had listened to my own strong convictions. Experts have led me astray before, in very consequential ways.
Reach out to people after the early days of loss. I learned this a long time ago – I have experienced loss. It is the card or flowers or phone call that arrives months later that are most affirming and most comforting. It is never too late to acknowledge a loss. It is always comforting to know that someone remembers the person you mourn.
I once worked for a large organization, and it was my least favorite job. I did not match well with the culture. But one thing I did appreciate is that the Human Resources department made it their own policy for members of their department and/or the organization to be present at any funeral of a staff person’s family member. When my Dad died, I was comforted by the number of my clients who came to my Dad’s wake. There is perhaps no greater level of respect that you can give to someone then meeting them in the literal space where they are at their most vulnerable.

I may not know of your most recent loss, or those that linger with you. But I honor your journey and wish you more peace today than you had yesterday.

And to my Dad - thank you. Every word I write in some way was inspired by you.