Nine days. Just nine days until I reach the end of my annual tradition of matching dates with last year’s memories. In nine days, it will mark the anniversary of my father’s passing. Over the past year, I’ve found solace in recalling moments when he was still with us; on certain days, I can say, “Last year on this day, we did this,” or I come across a grocery receipt showing I bought his favorite foods. I remember the laughter we shared and how just two days from now, we had our last conversation while watching the Bears’ pre-season game. He enjoyed a hearty meal that night, and we all felt a sense of relief that he finally ate. We kept reminding him, “You need your strength,” as we watched him lose weight, his cheeks hollow and his legs frail.
That night, the Bears suffered a defeat, and he turned off the TV in frustration, pointing fingers at the players he believed were to blame. I made my bed on the couch beside him to ensure he received his medication on time. The hospice nurse warned us about “breakthrough pain,” and we knew how crucial it was to keep the morphine flowing to ease his suffering. He resisted sleeping on the hospital bed, insisting on his own, so we coaxed him into it with gentle persuasion, like we were talking to a child. “You’ll be more comfortable, Dad. See? It’s easier to get in and out of,” I lied, adjusting the bed with the remote.
He slept peacefully that night, but the next morning, he was still with us, yet not truly present. His body was there but moving on autopilot, going through the motions he had done for 70 years. He wanted to go to the bathroom, to drink, to take his medicine, but his mind was foggy, disconnected from our faces. I learned a new word that day: unresponsive.
“Be mindful of what you say; he can still hear you,” a friend advised me after her own father’s passing. When her dad was deemed “unresponsive,” he managed a thumbs-up to a comment just a day before he passed. So, I ushered nurses out when they spoke of his limited time left. I held the phone to his ear as family from afar expressed their love. I stifled my sobs, telling him we would be okay. He had a great sense of humor, and I tried to lighten the mood, reminding him, “You raised an incredible daughter, so I’ve got this. The Jamie Express is in full swing.” He used to call me that.
When my three boys came to say their goodbyes, they stood silently beside him, tears streaming down their faces. “Dad, the boys are here,” I said cheerfully, introducing them with their personalized nicknames: “Little Max, Jax, and Brody are here and they love you.” That brought a smile to his face.
As the week progressed, his breathing became more labored. On a Friday afternoon, I took my family’s advice and left his room. “He might hold on longer if you’re here,” they said. The sun streamed through the blinds, and his favorite oldies played softly in the background. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and promised I’d return in the morning. Just as I stood up, the radio popped and went silent. I froze. It felt like a sign, a final farewell. He passed away early the next day.
Now, a year later, there’s still half a bag of frozen peas in my freezer. During the last six months of his life, my dad stayed with us, occasionally cooking when he had the energy. One evening, he made his favorite dish: rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. I haven’t touched those peas since because they hold such strong memories. The bag sits in the far corner of the freezer, secured with a thick rubber band. Sometimes, as I search for frozen waffles or ice cream, I catch a glimpse of it and pause, lost in thought.
Time continues to march forward, and it’s hard to believe it’s almost been a year since I lost my vibrant, life-loving father. But the human spirit is remarkable, pushing us toward normalcy. Many have told me, “It will get easier; the first year is tough.” It has become easier, and I wonder if on day 366, I’ll finally decide what to do with those peas. But for now, I still have nine more days.
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Summary
This reflection on grief recounts the author’s memories of her father, leading up to the anniversary of his passing. A bag of frozen peas serves as a poignant reminder of their shared moments, illustrating how memory and love endure amidst loss.