Tug of War

This essay was originally composed in May 2015 after the burial of my parents,  long before the pandemic with its associated gathering size limits and travel bans.   I hesitated to post something so deep during a time of already intense struggle, but writing has always been my creative outlet to productively process my spinning head.   It’s my hope that this piece might resonate with you and nudge you toward a healing journey of your own should you be in need of one.  

Leaving the light on for you,

Carol

I barely notice wheels touching tarmac as my flight safely returns home.  Traveling alone, exhausted and deep in thought, the gentle sway of the landing officially ends another bittersweet visit with my fragile parents.  Would this have been our last goodbye?  Only our Maker knew.  As with every goodbye over the last few years, we hugged hard and shed tears as I memorized their faces yet again in case it was indeed the last time I’d see them.  My mother’s soft skin, perfectly arched eyebrows, green eyes, and beautiful silver hair.  My dad’s calm demeanor, ready smile, beautiful blue eyes, and quick wit.  This emotional tug of war was a palpable constant as my siblings and I grappled with present reality and the opposing inevitable.  Tomorrow, as we all knew, was never guaranteed.

This visit marked another opportunity to relieve my exhausted brother and his wife  of their nearly constant caregiving duties. While they readily volunteered to look after Mom and Dad, having them in-home wasn’t without its difficulties.  My vacation weeks those few years were, in turn, their much-needed vacations.  For me, it offered a respite from a busy life with small children.  It also provided the opportunity to offer my fragile parents undivided attention, a gift they were able to give me growing up as the last kid in line.  We laughed, cried and shared stories from the annals of family memories.  I was their interim private nurse and chief advocate, along with chief cook and bottle washer, laundress, housekeeper and personal shopper for the week.  While I cared for them physically, we all partook in the reciprocating emotional support.  But despite the joys, this visit would again offer the same heartbreaking ending as the others.

I remember having a frank bedside chat with Mom on one of her final hospitalizations.  I cut to the chase and asked the difficult question: “What will happen when you’re gone?”  “You’ll be stronger,” her tired voice whispered.  “How do you know?” I asked.  “You just will be,” she answered.  I then asked her what advice she had for me for moving forward when she passed.  Forever the hostess, her eyes opened wide as her slightly louder whispered proclamation was “Party!”  

Dad had a different approach.  Having a bad heart, we were discussing the uncomfortable topic of resuscitation measures.  The uncomplicated farm boy waved his hand in the air as he directed me to “just have a cup of coffee” before calling 911.  I added I’d also wet his lips with a good single malt scotch for his heavenly journey home.  After his humorous reply he became sober and wept, adding he was so sad to miss out on future memories because “at the end of the day, that’s all you have.”  We sat tearfully at my kitchen table for a long while contemplating the gravity of what was to come.

The inevitable indeed came as it always does.  Mom passed first, quietly, during a hug from her hospice nurse.  Dad passed five years later, peacefully, in my brother’s arms.  As the devoted couple’s cremains were interred together I found it all strangely comforting.  I’ll never forget that day.  It was spring, warmed by the sun with clear blue skies and nature’s reawakening abundantly displayed.  How fitting.  It was a reawakening for me as well. I indeed felt stronger.  The gathering was lovely and new memories were made.  A small group, we vowed to all gather “on the other side.”  My siblings and I have inherited Dad’s beautiful blue eyes and quick wit.  I have the beginnings of mom’s silver hair, and I won’t cover it up for anything.  Their physical legacy thankfully lives on.  Our final goodbye on that beautiful day was like my parents, simple and pure.  Life had come full circle.  As I smiled and remembered their faces once again, the tug of war ended as the now-gilded rope was gently, lovingly pulled toward eternity.