In just nine days, I will mark the one-year anniversary of my father’s passing. Over the past year, I’ve found solace in recalling memories of the time we shared together; I can still say, “A year ago today, we enjoyed this,” or stumble upon a receipt and remember the foods he loved. Just two days from now, we had our final conversation while watching the pre-season football game. He devoured a hearty meal that evening, and we were all relieved to see him eat, as he had been growing weaker with each passing day.
That night, the Bears lost, and in his typical fashion, he turned off the television, frustrated, pointing fingers at the players he blamed. I made a bed on the couch next to him to ensure he received his pain medication on time. The hospice nurse had explained about “breakthrough pain.” This pain would come on suddenly and ferociously, but the morphine could help manage it. He avoided sleeping on the hospital bed we had set up, resistant to what he deemed a sick person’s contraption. “You’ll feel better, Dad. It’s much easier to get in and out of,” I said, coaxing him like a child while adjusting the bed with the remote.
He did manage a peaceful night of sleep, yet the next day, he was not truly there. His body was present, but his mind was lost, trying to navigate the daily routines he had performed for 70 years. He wanted to get up. He wanted to drink something. He wanted his medication. He shuffled his feet for the last time, looking past our faces, disconnected from us. He lay there, unresponsive, atop the plastic mattress covered with his usual flannel sheets and layers of pillows he had meticulously arranged each night.
“Be cautious with your words; he can still hear you,” a friend advised me after losing her own father. I took that to heart and would shoo nurses from the room when they casually discussed his condition. I held the phone to his ear as family members from afar expressed their love. I learned to stifle my sobs so he wouldn’t hear, assuring him everything would be alright. “You raised a phenomenal daughter; I’ve got this under control,” I joked, recalling how he used to call me “the Vickster.”
When my three sons came to say goodbye, they stood by his bedside, tears streaming down their faces. “Dad, the boys are here!” I announced brightly, introducing them with the nicknames he had given each of them. He smiled.
Over the week, his breathing became labored and slow. I took the advice of my family and left his room on a Friday afternoon. “He might not want to let go if you’re here,” they said. The sun streamed through the blinds, and the radio played softly in the background, his favorite oldies station. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and told him I’d return in the morning. Just as I stood up, the radio emitted a soft crackling sound and went silent. I froze. Perhaps it was a sign, and indeed, he passed away early the next morning.
Now, a year later, there remains a half bag of frozen peas in my freezer from when he lived with us during his final six months. On one of the good days, he made his beloved rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. I haven’t touched those peas since that night because they represent a cherished memory. The bag, neatly secured with a rubber band, sits in the far corner of the freezer. When I sift through the shelves for snacks, I sometimes catch a glimpse of it and pause to remember.
Time marches on, and it’s hard to believe it’s nearly been a year since I lost my vibrant father, the life of every gathering. Yet the human spirit is remarkably resilient, pushing us to seek normalcy. Many have reassured me, “It will become easier; the first year is the toughest.” It has become more manageable. Perhaps on day 366, I will finally decide what to do with those peas. But for now, I still have nine more days.
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Summary: This reflective piece details the author’s journey through grief after losing her father, focusing on poignant memories tied to a bag of frozen peas, a symbol of their last shared meal. As the anniversary of his death approaches, she grapples with the passage of time and her evolving emotional landscape, while also hinting at topics like home insemination for readers interested in family planning.