The Week

Two years ago I was in the darkest, lowest place in my entire life. The days preceding my dad's death from ALS are a huge blur, a jumble of confusion, frustration, and just pure helplessness as we watched the disease take its final toll. As we approach the two year anniversary of the day he left this world, I can't help but think back to those days and remember all the thoughts, feelings and emotions of that time.

A year ago I was in a similar place, but the emotions were much more raw. After a few glasses of wine one night, I turned on my computer and wrote a long, stream-of-consciousness account of those last few days. I typed it without editing, without correction, just allowing everything to come out. I sobbed and cried as I wrote it (and drank more wine). It was a cathartic moment for me and it felt good to finally put everything down. I felt the need to remember every little moment of those days, every hurt, every pain, every little stab to the heart.

I wrote all of this down as a blog post and then I hit SAVE, not POST. I don't think I'll ever post the actual words I wrote down that day. They are too raw, too angry, too upsetting to share. Some things are better left unsaid. Some things were meant to be private.

But I can talk about what I wrote that day. I spent a lot of time driving up and down 495 that week, making the awful trek between Virginia and Maryland, usually during rush hour, cursing as I fought my way through traffic, screaming in frustration more at the fact that I didn't know what was going to happen next with my dad than at the unending line of cars on the highway. I remember vividly the awful evening when I arrived at the house and my dad could no longer walk. I suddenly found myself helping him to stand, to turn, to sit back down - just as I do every day in my job as a physical therapist. I remember thinking to myself at that moment: 'Is THIS why I chose this profession? Did some unknown force lead me to learn how to do this so that I could help my Dad in his time of need?' I was suddenly grateful for all the years I'd spent helping people to stand, walk, lie down. I knew what to do and I could help my dad better than anyone else could have at that moment.

I remember a lot of other things from that week, like how my dad didn't want the night-time aide we hired to watch over him during that last night because it was too expensive, or how the next door neighbor started sawing boards in his backyard at 2 a.m. (seriously??), or how relieved we all felt when my dad agreed to be transferred to the hospice facility the next day.

I remember holding his right hand during his last hour, his big hand that held mine so many times, that strummed the guitar, played the piano, did so many, many things in my life. I remember the three of us - me, my mom, my sister - being in a bit of a daze, knowing that the end was near but still not quite accepting it.

I like to think he was on the other side at that point looking back at us, proud that we were all together, that we were holding his hands, rubbing his feet, playing his favorite song. I like to think that in those final moments, he was no longer there in his body, but that he was everywhere - in the room, in our hearts, in the next life where we will all be reunited someday. The tears come as I write this, but I know it to be true. I know he's in a better place and that we have no idea what is in store for us.

And I lied when I said I wouldn't post the actual words I wrote a year ago. That last paragraph was from that night and it still holds true, no matter how much time goes by. I'll never regret anything about those last days, although for a long time there were certain moments I've wished I could have gone back to and done better.

I realize now that everything happened that week the way it should have. For weeks I had a fear that I would get a call one day from my mom that my dad had passed away. We were fortunate that all three of us could be there with him at the end, but even if we hadn't been, it wouldn't have mattered. We'd been there all along. That's what counts.