Dad, you're just minutes away from me by car, at Van Dyk Manor in Montclair. You have been since the end of August. But I still haven't had the Conversation with you. I can't bring myself to have it. When I go to see you, the minutes or hours are filled with lots of things--checking in with the nurses, sharing a treat with you, pushing you around in your special cushioned lounge chair, chitchatting--but not this Conversation. Sis and Moey and H. have all told me I should talk to you. They know I will be devastated when the time comes to lose you, no matter when that is. It might go like this, if I were brave enough.
Dad, I wanted to talk to you about something. [by now I will be crying]
I am so afraid of you dying. I can't imagine living life without you. But I know one day you will die. I will just miss you so much. I don't know how I will handle it. You've been such a good father to me.
[sobbing now, poor Papa not knowing what to do, but he will find a way to make me feel better, I just know it]
I should have this Conversation. But it is so, so hard. I will see what I can do.
Tears are rolling down my cheeks right now. I am remembering how you'd take me out in the car to drive around and see the Christmas lights when I was a little girl--especially that one house in New Milford, over near Garden State Farms, that strung up more and more lights every year. We couldn't wait to see what they'd add next. And remember how we'd watch Miracle on 34th Street every winter holiday season? We loved it--especially the last scene, with Kris Kringle's cane left behind in the house.
Thank you for showing me the magic of Christmas--the light, the lore. And thank you for being both my mother and father after Mommy died.
Good night.
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Aw Alice, why do you need to have this talk? I'm not being facetious and maybe I'm missing something, but doesn't he know this already? I don't know your father well and certainly things go unsaid in all important relationships, but your love for your father shines through so clearly here on the blog that I can't imagine he doesn't know all that he means to you. Your being there every day is in essence having this conversation. Will having it help you then? If so, by all means keep working on the courage, but otherwise, just enjoy him, I think.
ReplyDeleteSame sentiment as Kim/different words:
ReplyDeleteDear Alice. Consider this. You are already having that conversation with him by everything that you do. Your frequency of visits, sharing treats, checking on his care, chit-chatting, keeping him company, talking about memories that are important to you both. All these things say exactly what you think you are avoiding. He knows how you feel. He knows you. You will know when and if to bring it up; the opportunity will present itself as clear as day. In the meantime, relax and enjoy your time together. It’s a gift.
Dear Kim and Lin, thank you for your lovely notes. I know this time is a gift, and I know my Dad knows how much he means to me. But I guess I don't want to regret not having said things. I will give this more thought. I would most definitely write him a long heartfelt letter and leave it there but he can't see well with his glasses. He needs a new RX and the eye doctor is delayed getting there. maybe i will write a letter and he can get someone else to read it to him. coward's way out! love alice
ReplyDeleteDear Alice,I agree with the comments above.John knows exactly how much you love and care for him that is very apparent.You are such a loving daughter I think your just being there is the greatest of comforts to him. It is very difficult but keep that smiling face there for him.
ReplyDeleteLove Aunt Ann
What wonderful advice from your friends!
ReplyDeleteYour special relationship is totally evident by what you write here. I'm sure he knows how much he means to you.
(((Alice)))
I don't think that writing a letter is cowardly in the least. Writing is your craft and there is probably no better or more personal way for you to convey your formal declarations of love and appreciation for your dad and all that he has meant to you. Plus, it would be helpful... for you to move through this step that is so important – for yourself. You can even read it to him any time you want to, (through tears of course). Or not.
ReplyDeleteLove, Linda
I hear you on the regret...how about you tell him only one thing a day or a week? Like tomorrow you can thank him for the love of Christmas, the lights, the lore, the special movies. That might be one way to edge organically into these kinds of conversations. Instead of thinking of it as ONE BIG conversation, maybe embark on a series of quieter, easier, but still heartfelt thank yous.
ReplyDeleteI do love a well-written letter ;-) but then nice thing about conversations is that you can hear him react and you can keep going down paths that you hadn't considered before.
but you can do both, too! talks and letters.
just more thoughts. But honestly, you can't screw this one up--you're doing so beautifully already.
It is such a hard place to be, when your parents are ailing. So many words you wished you could have said, so little time. But, I think you may find that they never really leave you. As others have commented, the best part of them survives in the way you live your life and the beautiful truth of your written words. Take care...
ReplyDeleteDear Kim, Lin, Aunt Ann, Eileen and Mary Alice--thank you so much for your sweet notes. I feel like they are presents to me! I take to heart and appreciate all that you say. Just to update you, tonight I saw Dad and we had such a nice visit. I said "Remember how we used to drive around and look at the Christmas lights, Dad?" "Yeah," he said. "It was like a competition to see who could put the most up." I also said, "I miss you, Dad. I haven't seen you since Friday." "Yeah, where have you been?" he said. I stepped out to the kitchen on the floor to get him some water and left my fluffy dog Sug with him on the bed. "Al? Al? Where are you?" he called. We had a good visit. love and thanks, alice
ReplyDelete