The six month anniversary of my dad's (Raymond) passing has come and gone. I find myself getting back to life, but I feel incredibly guilty for taking in the simple pleasures that Raymond enjoyed. Enjoying the sun, smelling the grass after it had just been cut, and watching my girls play outside. I look at the empty plastic chair that he loved to sit in under the tree and chat with the neighbors, drinking iced tea or Diet Dr. Pepper.
It's a funny thing to think that while I indulge in these things, that he is no longer a part of the daily routine. Visiting the nursing home became a staple in our family. Our lives revolved around the breakfast, lunch, and dinner rituals like clockwork. You could set your watch by it. I still catch myself looking at my watch or the time on the computer, and I think "He would be eating lunch right now." or "He'd be getting up from his nap right about now." All these things play out a tapestry of "He'd be doing this or that about now."
How many times in these six months, even last week I almost caught myself asking mom what time she was going to the nursing home. Almost. My mind still has not defaulted to Ray being gone, only that he is still at the nursing home 15 or so minutes away, and I'll try to get up and see him later on today.
Driving by the nursing home I catch myself glancing at the very window where we would all sit with him watching TV, enjoying Dairy Queen, and him watching my girls entertain him and making him grin and his blue eyes twinkle. They are ghosts in a haunting reality that I don't want to be in.
Alzheimers is a greedy thief that has no mercy on those it leaves behind. As a family member, you plan for your loved one's eventual end to this life, but somehow it is not something that you fully grasp after it happens. For three months I was trapped in a twilight zone-like haze. I couldn't eat, sleep, and everything I did manage to eat made me sick. I felt guilty for not being able to do more, when I already knew that God had His plan in motion.
Four days before Ray died, I left for the evening just as I always did and he told me the last words he would speak to me "I love you." The day before he died I spent about 20min or so talking to him, although he was unconscious under heavy sedation-but I felt the need to say what I needed to. I thanked him for being my dad, for being a grand-dad to my kids, and I promised I would take care of mom. I told him that it was okay to go, and I knew that he would be around to watch my girls grow up, and he'd be guiding us through our sorrow.
I took comfort in that.
The next six months at least I hope, will be one of healing, and one of remembrances that won't lead me to tears, but smiles. He looks in on us-I truly believe that his presence is very strong. When I am really missing him-he's there. I cannot see him, but in my mind I hear him say "Geezus-Man!" as he would always say. Somehow I know he comforts me-and all of us.
The next six months I hope to be happy again and to begin to get back to my life. It's easy to dwell upon the loss, but then as I have, you forget how to live, even one step at a time. I have kids to raise, a mother to love, and to tell myself it is okay to be alive.
Raymond would not want it any other way.