Dad has been gone for nearly 20 years, and I can say that I have a better relationship with him now than I ever did when he was alive.
There were many chaotic years growing up, I left home at 18 and made my own way through life, giving him and my mother a lot of grey hairs, to say the least, but when my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease he became an easier person to deal with because the mask of his tough guy persona melted away and what was left was a more gentle, funny man. The disease stripped away every part of him bit by bit and I often say that if he saw what had become of him, he would be horrified. I was relieved when the disease finally won because I hated seeing him so diminished. It was like I was feeling those feelings for him or even with him. I hated the lack of dignity he suffered with in those last months. Again, he would hate seeing himself that way, I am sure.
In the last month of his life, he lost his speech, he was bed-bound, bed sores developed in multiples. He was in a nursing home. My mother was there every day, and I had come to pick her up later, spend time with Dad then take her home. I kept saying to him, “Dad, it’s ok, you can go, we will take care of mom.” But each day he would lie in bed, eyes closed as his breathing became more labored each day.
A day before he died, when I went to see him and got off the elevator, I immediately heard what nurses call the “death rattle.” It is an accumulation of fluid in the airways which causes a frightening, awful, gurgling sound hard to hear, especially when it comes from a person you love — it occurs during the last phases of life. Dad was sweating with every breath, but he kept breathing, regardless of my encouragement to move on. He just was not listening. I sat near him and said, “Dad, I keep telling you that it is ok to go and here you are, still breathing. It is like you are trying to give me a message: Do not give up.” With that, my father, who had his eyes closed for weeks if not months, no longer spoke, and just lay in bed — I was not even sure he was conscious — but he winked at me! That changed everything. For the first time in my life, I experienced unconditional love. This warm feeling started at my heart and filled my whole body with a delicious, intoxicating, loving feeling. It was both a physical and emotional sensation that felt wonderful. It connected me to him in a way I never felt. I felt so gentle and loving toward him as I wiped the sweat off his brow for the rest of this visit. When I left, I thanked him for our moment together, told him that I loved him and later that night he passed.
His wink was a healing for me, and I suspected, for him too. Years of a turbulent relationship was patched up, and it connected me to him forever.
Thirty days after his passing, as is the Jewish custom, we went to the cemetery. I inherited my father’s car, and he loved rubber bands which he kept on the gear shift. I cleared them out when the car officially became mine. One of my sisters was in the passenger seat and when she got out of the car, there was sitting on the seat was a rubber band. It felt like he was thanking us for visiting him.
Rubber bands became his way of showing me he is still with me, because whenever I see a rubber band out of place, it is him. Sometimes I see them lying on the table in the lobby of my apartment building, on the floor and in the street. I have seen a few lying in a sideways eight, an infinity sign, and once on his birthday I found one in my coffee.
It felt like the love that we found at his passing was a parting gift that changed everything. I felt more peaceful as a lot of the insecurities and sadness left over from childhood melted away. But it also connected me to my father eternally. It is different from the love I feel towards people in my life, it feels more spiritual. Seeing rubber bands is a reminder that I am loved. Quite the gift.
None of us believed that our mother would survive her husband, our dad, for 12 years, but her strength and resilience surprised us all. She was never as happy as when he was around, but she did the best she could with what she had.
She was a math maven and none of us ever thought to look in her checkbook for accuracy, until one day my brother pointed it out. From there her short-term memory loss was clearer to us: at the beginning she was good-natured about it, I suspect because she felt safe. I was around very often, and my sisters and brother visited regularly. We got her live-in help, so when she had forgotten it was ok as someone was looking after her and we all felt safe.
Once my husband and I were taking her to a play and on the way, she kept asking, “Where are we going?” I would answer, “We are going to see a play.” She kept asking, I kept answering. When we got out of the car, she was quiet and looked pensive. She finally realized she was repeating herself and in a thoughtful manner said, “You know, every moment is a new experience.” I love the wisdom and the truth of that statement that usually enlightened beings after years of meditation finally experienced, but for my mother all she had to do was lose her memory! Brilliant, however, as her memory loss progressed, she became frightened and sad.
My mother did not have Alzheimer’s Disease like Dad, as that affected his whole body. She had vascular dementia that affected mostly her short-term memory. She was grateful to have a live-in aide as her behavior was often childlike and cute. Once when her aide made dinner for us, Mom looked at me sheepishly as she hid the food she did not want to eat under her napkin. She was like a little girl hiding something from mommy. So funny.
Towards the end of her life my sisters and I went to Greece together and were visiting her parents’ place of birth, Ionania, when our brother called us to say she had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of Leukemia. The irony of his call when we were in the birthplace of her parents was not lost on us. We all agreed that at 95 she was not going to be treated, that we would get hospice services for her when it was time.
The end came very quickly, within a few months of her diagnosis. In addition to her memory loss there were at least two occasions that I know of where she saw her mother and our father, visions that felt very real to her. The first time, the aide called me immediately and by the time I got there my mother was silent and looked terribly upset. She knew she had leukemia, and she told the hospice social worker that she was ready to pass on, but on this occasion her distress was evident, and she had difficulty talking about it. I gently told her, “Mom, you are not losing your mind. I read somewhere that when people are close to the end of their life, they see people who had already passed on. They are watching over the people they love. Dad is watching over you. It is ok, Mom.” My mother looked at me, still silent but a bit less upset. Another time a day or two before her death the aide told me she heard my mother apologizing to her mother for not being there when she died, because she was in school, and another time she had a radiant smile reaching out to someone, who I’d guess was her husband, my dad.
On Thanksgiving Day, I stayed with her because she was rapidly declining. I called the hospice nurse who started her on morphine to help with her breathing. She was silent in those last couple of days, but when the nurse came and I was in the dining room talking to her, my mother called out to me, “Marilyn, I love you with all my heart.” Though I knew she loved me, I never heard her say it until that day, and years later it still brings tears to remember this special moment. The next day the family came over to say their goodbyes. One of my nieces told mom she was pregnant, one of my sisters promised her that we would all stay together as a family and my mother listened silently, taking it all in.
The following day, the aide called me, and I raced over there to be with her when she breathed her last breath. Shortly after that happened, we heard a door slam shut, maybe it was the compactor room door next to her apartment, and maybe it was her leaving because her body was already showing signs of being empty: Her face was expressionless.
On the last day of Shiva, I was driving over to my brother’s house like I have done many times before with my mother in the back seat except this time, I was alone. Suddenly I felt my mother’s presence sitting in the back seat. I had to resist the urge to turn around to see if she was there. Instead, I felt her presence, she was happy, and I was happy for her, and with her.
The passing of both parents was sad, but I received their parting gift of love-eternal. It comforted me to know I was able to be there for them in their last hours. That alone helped me see myself with kinder eyes; part of their gift was self-love.
I see rubber bands as my father’s message of love, and I wear my mother’s wedding ring, which is a constant reminder that not only is love eternal, but their presence in my life continues to bring joy.