Just nine more days remain. Nine days until I can finally close the chapter on a year filled with bittersweet memories and reflections on my father’s life. The anniversary of his passing is fast approaching, and for the last 365 days, I have found solace in recalling moments we shared. Each day, I can say, “This time last year, we did this,” and when I sift through old receipts, I am reminded of the meals I bought that he enjoyed. I remember our laughter and the warmth of his hand in mine as we watched the pre-season football game together for the final time.
That night, as he savored a hearty meal, we encouraged him, “You need your strength.” We watched, hearts heavy, as he became frailer with time—his cheeks hollow and legs like twigs. The Bears lost that game, and in his usual frustrated manner, he turned off the television, critiquing the players’ performances. I set up a bed on the couch next to him, ensuring he received his pain medication on time. The hospice nurse had explained the urgency of consistent dosing to avoid “breakthrough pain.”
Initially resistant, he eventually relented to sleep in the hospital bed we coaxed him into. “You’ll be more comfortable, Dad,” I reassured him, manipulating the remote as if he were a child. That night, he finally rested peacefully, but the next day, he was gone—his body still present but his spirit visibly fading. He shuffled his feet for the last time, lost in a daze, unable to connect with us. I observed him lying on the plastic mattress, the flannel covering his body, and learned a new word: unresponsive.
Unresponsive is a different state than unconscious. My friend had warned me to be mindful of our words; her father had reacted to a comment while in a similar state just before he passed. So, I quickly ushered nurses out when they discussed his declining condition. I held the phone to his ear as family members expressed their love from afar, learning to stifle my tears so he wouldn’t notice. “You raised an incredible daughter, so don’t worry. I’ve got this,” I joked, trying to light the mood—he used to call me “The Vickster.”
When my three boys came to say goodbye, they stood weeping at his side. “Dad, the boys are here!” I announced cheerfully, sharing their nicknames—“Little Bear,” “Max the Great,” and “Brody the Brave.” My father smiled faintly. As his breathing grew labored, I decided to leave the room at my family’s suggestion, thinking he might find it easier to let go without me there. I kissed his forehead, the sun streaming through the blinds, and as I told him I’d return in the morning, the radio softly went silent. That was my sign; he passed the following morning.
Now, over a year later, I still have half a bag of frozen peas in the back of my freezer—a remnant of the time he spent living with us. He had cooked for us during his last months, and one of those meals was rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas, his favorite. I haven’t touched those peas since; they are a poignant reminder of our shared moments. Each time I rummage through the freezer for snacks, I stumble upon that plastic bag and pause, lost in thought.
As life continues to rush forward, I can hardly believe it’s nearly been a year since I lost my vibrant, life-loving father. But resilience is part of the human spirit, pushing us toward healing. Many have assured me, “It will get easier; the first year is the hardest.” And while it has indeed grown easier, I still find myself holding onto those peas, perhaps until day 366, when I may finally decide what to do with them.
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In summary, the emotional journey of grieving my father intertwines with the tangible reminders in my home, like the bag of peas that I cannot bring myself to discard. Each memory we shared provides comfort as I navigate the challenging path of loss and healing.