by Patricia Parker

Created on: September 19, 2008   Last Updated: September 20, 2008

I'm not quite a motherless child. My mother is eighty-seven years old and has dementia. She doesn't know me as her daughter, or know her three sons, her nine grandchildren and certainly not her fourteen great-grandchildren. Her world is defined by what she experiences at any given moment in time. Although by definition, a heart beats, there is in reality a life that no longer exists.

My father passed away almost six years ago. He had been healthy all of his life until the age of eighty-five. He developed Congestive Heart Failure, his kidney's failed and he was put on
dialysis, he had a leg amputated due to lack of circulation and after the surgery suffered a major stroke. He died in a nursing facility in the middle of the night, all alone. I will never forgive myself for not being there.

We had to go out of town the day he died. It was my husband's 50th high school reunion and
since we had only been married for five years, he wanted to introduce me as his new bride.
I was torn between staying with my father or going with my husband. It was only going to be an overnight stay in his hometown 350 miles away. Surely Dad would hold on until we got home.

Before we left, we stopped by the nursing home to visit with him. He was lying in bed, half in and half out of consciousness. He was dying before my eyes. I knew it and so did he. I bent
down to tell him that we were leaving for Iowa and that we'd come by to see him on our way home. I know he heard me. He struggled to open his eyes. Once bright blue, they had become faded and cloudy. His lips were parched and his skin was drying out.Dehydration was taking its toll. The silver hair he was so proud of hadn't been combed in days and gray whiskers covered his beautiful face. I was staring death in the face and that face belonged to the most wonderful father anyone ever had. It hurt so much I had to turn away for a minute to regain my composure.

I had always been dad's favorite as I was the oldest child and only girl. All my life he called me "Peach," a nickname I hated in my teens. I would have cut off my right arm that day at the nursing home if he had only spoken that word. The stroke had left him unable to say more than a few words at a time and even those words rarely made sense. I realize now that he was well aware of his inability to communicate effectively. He, who had always loved words and puns and Irish stories was rendered speechless.

Dad looked at me and I sensed a recognition, of sorts. He tried to smile and with

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