Once again, Dad is lost in the assisted living facility. This time, we find him in the stairwell. Recent incidents, like leaving a tap running and wandering into other residents’ rooms uninvited, have raised concerns. Dad even urinated in his own closet. After being placed on an urgent waitlist for a nursing home, a spot opens up. Despite Mom’s request to delay the move until after Christmas, it’s not possible as the spot must go to the next person in line. Dad’s move is scheduled for December 23rd, right in the midst of the holiday season.
On Christmas Day, as Dad finishes his blueberry pie unknowingly, it marks his final meal at the facility. Mom, in her wheelchair, places her frail hand on his, trying to cope with the impending separation. Her unwavering cheerfulness, learned from facing unimaginable grief at a young age, shines through even in this difficult moment. With great effort due to her own health issues, Mom turns to Dad and smiles, acknowledging that after 60 years of marriage, they won’t be living together anymore.
As Dad is led to his new home, his memory loss prevents him from fully understanding the situation. Mom reassures him that they will visit often, but the reality of the separation is heartbreaking. The drive to the nursing home is somber, with Dad showing brief moments of clarity amidst his confusion. Upon arrival, he resists leaving the car, showing a rare display of understanding of the situation unfolding.
With a heavy heart, we guide Dad into his new living space, where he voices his thoughts for the first time in months, reflecting on the challenging situation he finds himself in. Despite our visits and the care provided by the staff, Dad struggles to adapt. His restlessness leads to conflicts with other residents, painting a stark picture of his isolation in this new environment.
As we witness Dad’s desolation in the nursing home, we are grateful for the caregivers’ efforts but also aware of the challenges they face. Dad’s once active and vibrant spirit is now confined within the walls of the facility, a stark reminder of the unexpected losses that have reshaped our family dynamics.
Currently operating. The separation from Mom may evoke feelings of abandonment and fear. Dad exhibits aggressive behavior towards a caregiver, prompting the protocol to call for an ambulance. Dad’s reaction is likened to that of an animal as paramedics forcibly secure him to a stretcher.***Six years earlier, Mom and Dad were enjoying retirement until Dad began experiencing more pronounced memory loss and received a dementia diagnosis. Initially, he made light of the situation, joking about it. When asked about his wellbeing, he quipped, “Considering everything, not too bad, but there’s much to consider.” Meanwhile, Mom’s osteoporosis confined her to a wheelchair, necessitating a move from their family home to a nearby assisted-living facility. They found comfort in their new residence, which resembled a luxurious hotel. Dad’s world gradually shrank as he struggled to remember even family members’ names. Simple tasks, like assisting Mom with a glass of water, became challenging. During outings, Mom would sit in the front seat while Dad, sporting wrap-around sunglasses, would smile at the snow-capped mountains. At a rest stop, he cheerfully devoured his sandwich, half of Mom’s, and four cookies, finding joy in the mountain scenery. The author’s parents celebrating their 50th anniversary in 2005. Courtesy of John Mawdsley***Dad, restrained on a stretcher at the nursing home, is transferred to an emergency department. His shouts echo in the hospital waiting room until his daughter-in-law Lisa arrives to soothe him. Reluctant to let go of her hand, Dad is admitted to a ward. Two days go by with Dad sedated and me staring blankly at the wall. Despite being 85, Dad’s physique resembles that of a much younger man due to years of marathon training. His once-healthy appetite has vanished, with untouched food trays accumulating in the corner. An individual, possibly a doctor, enters the room in casual attire, introducing herself as Jocelyn Hughes, Dad’s palliative physician. She explains that Dad’s late-stage dementia has led him to stop eating. She reveals Dad’s advance directive, indicating his wish not to receive life-sustaining treatment if recovery is deemed impossible. Despite my optimism about his appetite returning, Jocelyn’s somber nod suggests otherwise. She elaborates on managing Dad’s pain through morphine and providing comfort care. As she leaves to tend to Dad, I brace myself for the difficult decisions ahead. The unspoken reality is that Dad may succumb to starvation. The author’s dad running a marathon in his 50s, circa 1983. Courtesy of John Mawdsley***I sit by Dad’s side, holding his hand, a simple gesture that evokes memories of my childhood. Decades later, his hand is now secured to the bedrail with a white strap, an image that symbolizes the challenging journey we face.
Due to his ongoing uncontrollable behavior, he is unable to bend his legs, fold his hands, or even scratch an itch. The restraints on him are cushioned for comfort, resembling a prisoner tied down. As I gaze at the foam padding, I see my father, once vibrant and active, now confined to a hospital bed. A sense of numbness and disbelief washes over me. In my youth, my father would often dismiss pain or fear with a call to “toughen up,” a directive that I resented deeply.
Days pass, marked by uneaten food trays and fleeting hope when my father attempts to eat, only to reject the food. His appearance deteriorates, with dry lips, sunken eyes, and rubbery skin. Eventually, the restraints are removed as his condition worsens. My siblings and I adorn his hospital room with his marathon medals and a family photo album, trying to bring some familiarity and comfort to his surroundings. Even in his sedated state, my father manages to tap his fingers to the beat of his favorite songs.
As the weeks drag on, my father’s condition deteriorates further. He is administered morphine for comfort, as we watch helplessly. I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t provide him with relief sooner. I make a mental note to avoid reaching such a state in my own life.
After sixteen agonizing days, we receive the news that the end is near. I reach out to hug my father, expressing my love and gratitude for his role as a father. Regret washes over me for not having said these words more often. His struggle for breath becomes more pronounced, each inhale a laborious effort. Eventually, his breathing ceases, and he is at peace.
In the aftermath of his passing, the pain lingers. I throw myself into funeral arrangements and tasks to distract myself from the grief bubbling beneath the surface. The days go by in a blur as I try to cope with the loss.
A year later, with a heavy heart, I visit my mother in the nursing home after her battle with pneumonia. She smiles warmly as I update her on her grandchildren. Before leaving, she waves with a cheerful goodbye.
That evening, a call informs me of her peaceful passing. I am plunged into another round of funeral planning and executor duties. The weight of the losses weighs heavily on me, impacting my interactions with others.
Seeking solace, I impulsively trade my white motorcycle for a new black model and embark on a 10,000-mile journey across the country. As I speed down remote highways, I am consumed by a mix of emotions, seeking a sense of liberation from the pain of loss.
Hello, there is a risk of encountering a bull moose, which could lead to instant death — not necessarily a bad outcome. Looking back, I find myself navigating through the fog of grief, facing its rough and painful journey. I have often acted in self-destructive or hurtful ways towards those I hold dear, burying myself in work, lashing out at loved ones, or emotionally withdrawing. I am grateful for my forgiving and supportive family, particularly my wife of 36 years, Lisa.
Many of us struggle to understand or discuss grief. Similar to parenthood, we enter the realm of grief with no prior knowledge. While parenthood offers immediate feedback, grief’s feedback is prolonged, subtle, at times brutal, and can lead to fractured families and shattered lives. Each person’s experience of grief is unique, and there is no definitive way to prepare for the incomprehensible until it is faced. I ponder how things might have been different if I had not plunged into everything so ill-equipped — so utterly naive. Although acceptance eventually comes, it is never easy and could have been less damaging.
I have come to realize that grief is an ongoing marathon, a race without a true finish line. Grief coexists with our capacity to give and receive love, ultimately deepening my love and admiration for my parents.
Upon returning from Newfoundland, Lisa, clad in her bright blue cycling tights, urges me out of bed at noon. In silence, we cycle along the river and pause at a café. Tears well up as I stand in line at the food counter, escalating into uncontrollable sobs. Despite my efforts to compose myself, the tears persist. What is happening to me? Am I losing my mind?
I retreat outside and sit on a sun-warmed bench, trembling, as tears cascade onto the concrete amidst remnants of coffee stains, squashed french fries, and a discarded cigarette butt. Lisa removes her vest and offers me a sandwich, which I reluctantly eat, the taste salty, wet, and mingled with tears.
The sunlight dances on the water, a gentle breeze rustles through the air. Passersby carry on with their lives, attending school, heading to work, spending time with family, and perhaps seeking solace.
“Let’s go home,” I whisper.
“I think we should continue,” Lisa replies.
I nod in agreement. We retrieve our bikes and continue our journey.
John Mawdsley, a writer and essayist residing in Calgary, Alberta, enjoys hiking and skiing with his family in the Rockies, as well as embarking on long motorcycle rides. His nonfiction work has been featured in the Globe and Mail and Pacific Yachting magazine. To explore more of his writings, visit johnmawdsley.com.
If you have a compelling personal narrative that you wish to share on HuffPost, learn more about our submission guidelines and pitch us at pitch@huffpost.com.
Certainly! Here is the revised text: Please ensure to maintain the appropriate size, making sure it is kept long. Please adhere to the spelling rules and avoid leaving any sentences incomplete.
