Four days ago was the one-year anniversary of Dad’s passing. It was a busy day of teaching and meeting with students, but thoughts of Dad filled my mind from the time I woke up until I finally drifted off after midnight. I can still remember every detail of the day Dad left us, from the words we shared that morning and again when he was brought to the ICU following the TAVR procedure and was confused about the tingling in his right arm to the feel of his skin when I rubbed his forehead to the serene look on his face as he slipped from this world to the next.
I’ve often heard that making it to the one-year anniversary of a loved one’s passing is a significant milestone. Conventional wisdom suggests that getting through important holidays and other events without the deceased by your side provides those left behind with the confidence that they can move forward. That everything will be okay once again. Perhaps this one-year mark works for some, but I can’t say I’m confident that life without Dad will be smooth-sailing from here on out.
There’s still the farm. I’ve learned a lot during the past year, paying bills and following through on decisions set in motion by Dad, like honoring contracts for the sale of 2018 grain. But there’s still so very much I don’t know and mistakes I’ve made–not to mention those that I haven’t yet been made aware of.
I’ve accomplished just a fraction of the work needed to sort through my parents’ farmhouse. Now that a year has passed, I think I might be ready to sift through Dad’s clothes and personal belongings when I head back to Illinois next week, though I wonder whether I’ll actually be able to part with items that he made use of during our days together those last few months of his life. Several of his shirts still smell like Dad, and I am not ready to let go of that tangible reminder.
I continue to struggle with how best to support Mom as she mourns the loss of her husband of almost six decades. Mom will move to Birmingham sometime this summer to start a new life with us. It’s the best solution for us all–Mom will feel less isolated, we’ll worry less about her well-being, the girls will spend more time with their grandmother when they come home from college and wherever else their lives take them in the coming years. Despite the perks of Mom moving South, I recognize that the change will be difficult for her. Mom has never lived anywhere other than Central Illinois, where she knows just about everybody in our small hometown. And while I’ll still take Mom to Illinois occasionally to visit, “home” will never be the same again.
My brother continues to face his own demons. He fled Illinois and is now in Idaho, where he’s already running into trouble with the law and sought assistance at a mental health facility. Like me, Dad never did know how to respond to Joe’s unrelenting highs and lows brought on by mental illness and addiction to drugs and alcohol. Knowing that Dad was there to talk to about the situation, and the feelings of helplessness that don’t go away when a member of your family is perpetually troubled, was a comfort–more than I realized until Dad was no longer there to listen and offer advice.
A few years ago, I talked with Pastor Thomas Kelly, who serves St. Peter the Apostle Catholic Church which we’ve attended since moving to Birmingham, about funeral traditions in Ireland for a story I was writing. Father Kelly told me that families in his home country celebrate “Year’s End Masses,” services that are announced in church bulletins and newspapers and intended to draw those who knew the deceased one year after their passing. According to Father Kelly, there are two rituals that define how Irish Catholic mourners are encouraged to process their grief. I found both compelling at the time and continue to think about them as I experience the aftermath of Dad’s passing.
First, there’s the “kicking of the chairs” that occurs at the close of the wake which even today often takes place in the home. The casket, usually consisting of a simple pine box, is held up by two overturned chairs on each end. Once the casket lid is nailed on, the box is lifted for transporting to the church for a funeral mass and the pallbearers “kick” over the chairs to symbolize the end of the deceased’s life on earth. Father Kelly said that as the chairs fall, those in attendance are urged to “make peace with the departure of their loved one’s soul.”
By the time the “year’s end mass” is celebrated, Father Kelly said, mourners have experienced a full calendar year without the deceased. They have had the time to process their loss and to bid a final goodbye. Again, I’m not certain that one year is sufficient for preparing for this moment.
I’m setting my sights on “week’s end” at this point. Dad’s ashes arrived in the U.S. Mail last Saturday, and I’ve chosen this weekend to open the box and look at what remains of his mortal body. I might gain some closure, or perhaps another perspective on what this journey means–for Dad and those of us who miss him dearly.
Cancer Hits the Streets 