I have a hard time writing about it. I have a hard time talking about it, and I certainly have a hard time accepting it as truth. Papito’s burial was on Friday. He passed away in my home, which is where he wanted to be. Two weeks before he passed away we received news that the cancer had spread too much and there wasn’t anything more that could be done. He was transitioned to hospice care at home. Through this program, hospice nurses were available by phone 24/7, always there to guide us through his end-of-life care. They mailed his prescriptions so that we didn’t have to leave the house for anything. Morphine for pain. Haldol for agitation. Lorazepam for Anxiety, among other medications. Pills for when he could swallow pills and liquid for when he could no longer swallow. The nurses are kind and patient and they give you everything you need to keep your loved one comfortable. The hospice nurse would come only if we called, but as he got closer to the end, they started coming more often until they were coming every day to check on his status. The world stopped turning for a few weeks as we did everything we could to keep him comfortable.
They give you books to prepare you for what to expect as your loved one transitions away from this world. The books tell you that they will stop wanting to socialize as much. That they will stop eating. That they may lose lucidity and that their breathing patterns may change. What the book doesn’t explicitly tell you about is how profound your own pain will be as you watch your loved one suffer. There is no dedicated chapter to tell you that watching someone die takes an emotional toll on everyone left behind. They don’t tell you that your family members can surprise you in both horrible and beautiful ways during times of crisis. They don’t tell you how, in crisis, you will grow even closer to those family members who you have always leaned on, and how behaviors of others that are usually tolerable become absolutely unbearable under the weight of your devastation. The book prepares you for the idea that your loved one will no longer be physically with you, and that a death will happen...It tells you how much time they estimate your loved one has left based on physical symptoms...but they don’t really tell you that watching the gradual decline of the first man you’ve ever loved will feel like you are experiencing their death a hundred times over. They don’t tell you about how every time they lose the ability to do something - to walk on their own, to climb stairs, to get out of bed, to eat, to recognize you, to speak, to respond to your “I love you” - it feels like a small death.
I am grateful that we were all able to spend so much time with him towards the end. I am grateful to my family who all made it a point to help him, taking turns around the clock so that he was never, ever, alone. I am grateful that we were able to be there with him as he drew his last breath, and that he left this world knowing he was loved. I am grateful that I still feel his love around me, even though this experience has left me confused and wondering where he is and whether he is still with us in other ways. His memory is very much alive within all of us, and everything he has taught us will carry us forward.
I delivered his eulogy at his grave, and I will share the portion I thought to be most true:
Papi felt that love should always be expressed, no matter what. Even when you’re angry, even when you’re busy, even when you think your loved one already knows – express your love anyways. He taught us to hug and kiss our children, and always speak positivity into them.
There are so many things he taught us, values he would talk about all the time. But there were important things we learned because he modeled them for us. My father taught me how to love deeply and openly, and he did so by loving me deeply, and openly – even in moments when I wasn’t being very lovable. He taught me to forgive freely by forgiving me freely, forgiving me often, and even when I didn’t deserve it. Papi didn’t really stay angry or hold grudges with anyone. And one thing I noticed, is that people loved him the same way in return.
The greatest honor I could do my father is to love others the way he loved me, and I will forever strive to do that. I love you, Daddy. Thank you for stopping by, and I will see you again one day.
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