On Grieving

So there we were, squared off across the table, the emotional side of the family over there, the more guarded side of the family aligned with yours truly. At the far end of the table was a psychologist and grief counselor, Kevin or Keith. And, on the speaker phone from China, was our brother Bob, who really does not fit into any family characterization other than “unique.” I suppose he would have sat at a different table.

I am an introvert, and I am not publicly emotional. To some I would appear stilted, even stunted emotionally, but I am not. And I have come to grips with my father’s impending demise. Still, there we all were, to discuss the process of grieving. Although it seemed to me to be a rather formal means of discussing a rather personal topic, it was important for our family to discuss this and make clear that we would indeed “be there” for each other to assist in the grieving process.

Family members tend to revert to specific “roles” when they get together as adults. My brother the lawyer arranged this meeting. He believes in meetings and counseling. My siblings and I all assumed our roles (I am a “listener”) around the tables, to some degree, and I believe overall this was a beneficial meeting. The psychologist’s description of the many ways that people grieve, and the many different time tables, was of the most value to me, as I know from past experience that I do not spend a lot of time grieving right away, but tend to dole out grief in measured bursts, staggered at intervals that I can handle. Since I am fundamentally unable to handle a lot of grief at once, this tends toward a long period of grieving. But I already knew that. Now I know that’s OK. The others discussed what is important to them. Largely, I came away with the awareness of needing to support my mother more than ever, and to keep in touch just as much with my siblings after Dad’s demise as during the time we have been managing his illness.

I am thankful my brother instigated the meeting, and that we were all available to attend. Perhaps this would have been a good idea when our older sister Mary died in a car crash six years back, when I was just about convinced we were all dysfunctional because the grieving processes were varied and many, and that I must have been doing something wrong since I could not relate to how the others were handling things.

While I was in the Navy, a dozen of my friends died. All while flying, usually while flying into the ground, but sometimes the water. And all were avoidable accidents, mishaps, not war time losses. Considered “aircrew error” except for the F-14 that disintegrated when its afterburner blew up instead of igniting. My sister and my nephew died in a sudden car crash, an accident for which they were blameless. These were all losses that happened suddenly. The death watch for my father is a different situation. It is a slow motion mishap, the kind you can see coming from a mile away and brace yourself for the impact. So there is time to prepare, and, although you cannot avoid it, you can prepare yourself for it. The wise will take the time to make these preparations while they have the chance.

Dying or Not

I have read that older folks often die around the holidays. I have not written for a month due to the “holiday” season in December and the many distractions it brings. Not the least of the distractions was my father and the several times we were told that he was near death. At times it appears the hospice people are crying wolf, with each and every decline in health regarded as a harbinger of his demise, but he has physically rallied on these occasions, his body staving off the insults of pneumonia and low blood sugar and low blood pressure and medication withdrawal.

In one sense, this is exasperating. After all, we have removed the “life prolonging” medications from his regimen because we do not wish him to reach a fully vegetative state, basically allowing his body to fail along with his mind. This is in accordance with his strict guidance on the matter, made clear to us years ago. Although I do not wish my father to die on any given day, I know he, the he I knew for my entire life until very recently, did not relish the thought of living on in a severely diminished mental capacity. Although there are occasional glimpses of his personality, the Alzheimer’s disease has progressed more rapidly than anyone expected or the doctors could explain. The simple rapidity of his degradation by the disease has been staggering to us, and perhaps the overarching impression of his illness. Things happen fast. Dad did always want things to move quickly, though, so maybe his innate impatience has hastened his demise.

In a different sense, we are not quite ready to say our final goodbyes to our father. I feel like I will not have a chance to really connect verbally with him again – he does not know who I am anymore. There are the occasional moments of lucidity, but I am afraid these are occurring less and less all the time. And I do not seem to be there when they occur. Or they occur because there is a woman in the room but I am not a woman, so there you have it. So I feel like a lot of my grieving has already taken place. I am sure there will be more, but I have moved beyond denial and anger, and, although I still am depressed by it all, I am in that acceptance mode now. My father will die, and, I believe, soon. But he has always been a bit confounding, so I am not putting any money down on a particular month.

I was down in Pinehurst early in December, with my three children and our dog. My father was pleased to see the kids initially, and we chatted about nothing in particular, or particularly intelligible, our first night there. After that, though, there was not much real interaction, and my father was very unresponsive, even when I brought in my Labrador at the same time as Sandy the care-giver brought hers. Two big black dogs would have gotten quite a response from him a month earlier. I did not see my father again until shortly after Christmas. He had caught pneumonia, rebounded, and hung on during the interim, but he was truly vacant sometimes while I was there. Again, over a matter of weeks, his baseline mental health had declined perceptibly. Alzheimer’s is not very subtle.