My sisters and an uncle were there with him when he left us. We did what we promised we'd do. We did not let him suffer. Thankfully Hospice helped us to keep our promise. He was not afraid to die, but he was petrified that he'd lay there suffering, crapping himself, pissing the bed. My dad lived his life by his terms and no one else's. No one! He even died on his terms.
And now, a month and a half later, I still can't believe that he's gone. I have forgotten several times. My grandson who's 4 y.o was here and said some really funny stuff that I wanted to share with my dad. That was the first time I forgot that he had died.
It sounds so weird. How do you forget something like that? But I honestly did. Cooper said something hilarious about Dad's old cowdog, Babe. I had that instant thought, "Oh Dear Me! I've got to call Dad and tell him what this kid just said. He'll crack up laughing!" Then about a nanosecond later, I remembered that I can't call my dad...ever again. And that about broke me.
I don't know how you get over grief. Maybe you never do. The waves that come crashing in on me aren't quite so frequent, but when they do arrive, they are no less crippling. I'm just now beginning to be able to look at his photos without bawling. Just barely. I expect that I will miss him for the rest of my life.
My granddaughter was with me yesterday. She saw a photo of Dad and said, "Are you sad Grammy that Great Papa Cowboy died?" I told her that I was sad, that I missed him very very much. She placed her little hand on my shoulder and said, "Don't be sad, Grammy. Now he lives in the stars with Jesus." She wanted to go outside last night to look at the stars and say goodnight to Great Papa Cowboy.
I love that child. I'm thinking Dad would love her sweet and simple explanation. He loved to look at the stars. I think I may take up stargazing myself.
