My puzzling year
For ten years, I expected my father to die. For all of that time, when I picked up a call from my mom, I anticipated devastating news. Dad had those mini-strokes that snuck up on him and addled his brain, and so I balanced for a decade on edge. His incredible endurance kept him fighting his death as tenaciously as a drowning man battles the ocean’s waves.
As infuriating as it was that my father could not peacefully accept death, I also know that his forbearance forced him to summon all of his energy in order to push out a robust and horsey “love. you.” during those last hours. And I often cling to those words that literally took every ounce of strength from him.
My dad exhaled his final breath over a year ago. I flew directly from a conference in Colorado to visit him during his last moments. Then I got back on a plane to fly from my father’s funeral to another conference in New York. In the last year, I haven’t had much time to pause and reflect. I promised myself August and kept my calendar blissfully empty in anticipation of the rest. But now it seems that we will be moving next month, so my days will be filled with boxes, tape and newsprint instead of hot tea, thick books and lazy hours.
