On Losing A Parent
There are times, even now, almost two years later, that I can’t believe that it’s real. That my father is actually dead. That on a cold morning, four days before Christmas, as I lay in my bed in my parents’ home, I heard my mother screaming.
It all moves in vivid slo-mo in my memory. Startled awake in the darkness by my dogs barking madly, throwing back the covers and pulling the door to upstairs open to the sounds of my mother keening and saying “Oh no Bill, no, no, no.” I hesitated at the base of the stairs, as if delaying what I already knew. But I didn’t know, did I ? It couldn’t be.
Two nights before, he had managed to eat some soup and stay up until halftime of the Saints game. Even after we had helped him to bed and had given him his morphine, he had the strength and humor to call from his cell phone to our house phone, and when I answered said “Tell the Saints that halftime is over, they need to get on that field and play.” And wasn’t it just yesterday that I laid next to him and we laughed and told stories and he told me how much he loved me?
Those were the hardest 14 steps I have ever taken.
Losing a parent, to put it mildly, is devastating. Those first moments of horror, seeing my father’s lifeless body on his bed, begging him to wake up, crying with my brother and my cousins, the family pouring in, wakened from their sleep by the dreaded news. Hiding for just a moment in my bathroom, shower and sink running, my face buried in a towel to muffle my screams and capture my tears. Police arriving, the coroner, the body bag, the emptiness of the room without him. Those moments are the stuff of an eternal loop of nightmares that will forever haunt me, even in my waking hours. I often wonder if it’s easier to get the phone call, the news carried over an innocuous tether from your safe little world to the one your father isn’t in anymore. Does anything make losing a parent easier? I don’t think so.
The day of my father’s death we huddled as a family. Me, the nerd, scanning in pictures of a man I still held alive in the digital picture frame that would display his images before his death, before the cancer.
I didn’t cry again. Not in front of anyone. Stoic is the word they use to describe it in all the stories that you read about the dignity of death.
The word I would use is stunned. All through the visitors, the calls, the endless condolences, it didn’t seem real. Seeing his body one last time at the funeral home before he was cremated was like something out of a movie; it wasn’t me touching my father’s cold body. Opening the door to another forlorn face bearing a casserole dish, wading through a sea of flowers and those damn poinsettias that came because it was holiday time. I hate them now, their red fronds shout “YOUR DADDY’S DEAD” when I look at them.
Being melodramatic, I remind myself that I’m one parent away from being an orphan, one more funeral until I’m completely and utterly alone. I think people dropping like flies around you tends to give one a license for drama, at least for a bit. It helps me cope, being snarky and cryptic.
I remember at the funeral, one of my father’s friends said that he couldn’t believe that was Bill Trimble in that little tiny box. I almost laughed, then I almost cried, thinking of how Daddy said the same thing about his mother, years ago. Somehow I managed to remain upright.
Even now, there is not one single word of advice I can give you to make losing a parent, or anyone at all, any easier, any less heart wrenching and just slap exhausting. There are no words, no sappy cards, nothing to dull the pain and prevent the permanent dent it will put in your soul.
The best advice I can give is if someone wants to do something for you, let them. Even if it’s just a hug or holding your hand while you cry, let them. The presence of life around you as you struggle with death doesn’t ease the pain, but it sure makes you feel a little less dead inside to have a friend. If your friend is grieving, be there. No matter what. Even if they don’t want to talk, sit with them. Call. Write them a note. Tie a funny balloon on their car. Do something. Annoy the hell out of them, because at least they know you are there.
The people that caused me the most pain and confusion when my husband and then my father died were the ones who stood in the shadows, saying nothing, not reaching out. Some later said they didn’t know what to say, how to say it. I don’t believe that. Everyone can say “I love you, I’m here for you.” Don’t cause the person more pain by your inactions. And don’t come in like a hurricane and disappear.
The first few days and weeks are a whirl of activity. Ceremonies, calls, people, food, hugs. Then… silence. A void that can only be filled by the person you lost, but made ever more unbearable by those who aren’t there but can be. Have a voice about it. If a relative or friend has withdrawn and you want to know why, ask them. Don’t let anyone compound your misery. Death can never be reversed, that person can never be replaced. Never again being able to say what you want to the person you want to when you want to, it’s life’s greatest loss.
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Kim is a curvy cajun girl, widow and a certified genius. Kim grew up in Singapore, the daughter of oilfield trash and curses the day she was forced to repatriate. After 6 years in college majoring in snark and Bourbon Street, she became a Deputy Sheriff and eventually a Criminal Investigator on the gulf coast. After Hurricane Katrina she moved to Birmingham, AL and married the love of her life, who had the nerve to up and die on her. She writes about the the perils of widowhood, probate, retail and going back to school as a forty-something. She adores Auburn football, the Saints, cooking, eating, anything Acadian, drinks way too much wine and stalks Craig Ferguson and Shepard Smith nightly. 
A lot of this post could of been written by me.
My Mum passed away in May this year, it was a shock and sudden but then in a way it wasn’t. My Dad isn’t in my life so its just me and my sister now. I have thought so many times of writing down what I feel, how I felt, so I don’t forget (as if I ever could) but even writing this comment I am starting to tear up.
*deep breath*
I just really wanted to post and say, well done on this, very well written and hearing about others peoples experiences really does help.
Thanks x
Hugs to you. My dad died, unexpectedly, on November 1, 2004. I was a zombie for two weeks, and stayed in bed crying (my job had a very good bereavement policy, which was lucky for me. I wouldn’t have been able to work). My fiancee (now husband) and I were planning our wedding for the following April, and I just bagged all the plans. I simply couldn’t go through with a traditional wedding that would have had my dad by my side.
The shock and pain and weirdness does fade, and my family’s able to tell funny stories and laugh about my dad (who had the best sense of humor and would have hated all the tears and moping). Still, it hurts a lot, especially close to the anniversary of his death, which is coming up. Reading your story, and typing this, has me crying all over again.
I lost my mother almost 4 years ago to cancer and when I think about it now I wonder how I survived it. I didn’t realize that I would feel so orphaned, as an adult. My father is around but he and my mother had been divorced for a long time and he and I aren’t that close. Losing my mother affects my life every day. There is always something missing. It hurts less today, but the loss will always remain. Thankfully, we were able to know it was coming with her so there were no words left unsaid. Thanks for sharing your story.
Thanks for this Kim- I know it was hard to share, but it helps those of us who don’t understand know how to be a good friend.
First and foremost, I’m sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what it must feel like, even years later.
I also want to say thank you. My husband’s grandma passed away in the early hours this morning, and I’ve been wondering what to say to my in-laws when I see them later today that wouldn’t sound so small for something so huge happening. I still don’t know, but at least I know that I will do something and not sit quietly and wait for them to say something.
(((((((((((((((((HUGS))))))))))))))))))))))
The death of my mother was horrible for me. As I wrote in my blog, I never realized how much of who I was, was wrapped up in her. Losing one parent is difficult but my mother was the last and final parent loss for me. That made it it excruciating. Not only was I dealing with losing a part of myself, I was dealing with the horrible feeling that comes when you have lost two parents, the feeling of being abandoned or orphaned. You feel like you no longer “belong” to anyone, that terrible feeling that you are all alone in the world. It is something you cannot explain to someone, like my husband who still has both of hi natural parents. So, I certainly understand how you feel and my heart goes out to you.
When my grandmother died of cancer, I was shocked at how well my mother handled it. While her sisters were going to pieces, I watched her calmly make funeral arrangements, call family members to alert them to my grandmother’s death, and eat enough food to please my father. I tried to be there for her, but as you mentioned she was “stoic.” Until the wake.
My father insisted we all get there early, even earlier than “family time.” I’ve never seen my mother in so much distress. It took my father nearly 30 minutes to coax her to the casket and when she saw my grandmother, she screamed. I’ve never heard anything so awful in my life and I’ve never seen my mother cry so hard.
In all honestly, I’m scared to lose either of my parents. I can’t imagine having to go through that.
Thank you for this post, and to sound unoriginal, I’m sorry for your loss. I lost my dad 3 years ago when I was 22 and I’m still grieving. I don’t think I will ever not be grieving for him, simply because it is a loss that is forever. It gets easier with time, but I can honestly say that there is not a day that goes by where I don’t think about him. Usually something will trigger my mind and a random thought will appear, other days I catch a glimpse of his photo in my wallet; today was this post, so thank you. :)
I could not express the loss. You have done it for me. Thankyou. This is so helpful. I am sorry you have experienced so much pain.
When my mother died I was 19, my sister was 16. It was almost 15 years ago, and I still have a hard time with the reality of it. Now that I’m married, am a mom, and about to have another baby, there’s a whole new era of my life I mourn her loss in. It gets easier, and it doesn’t, as life changes you just feel the void differently. I cry less often, laugh at happy memories more often, and miss her like crazy. And I will forever call the stargazer lily “funeral flowers” in my mind. Just the scent of them brings me right back to the funeral home.
I’m sorry for your loss Kim. I hope you find peace.
You are amazing Kim. God has given you a gift of sharing important words, words that can touch, comfort and even heal. Thank you for sharing your heart.
Thank you Kim. I love you. XOXO
“Even now, there is not one single word of advice I can give you to make losing a parent, or anyone at all, any easier, any less heart wrenching and just slap exhausting. There are no words, no sappy cards, nothing to dull the pain and prevent the permanent dent it will put in your soul.”
After almost 10 years? Yes. That exactly. It never, ever gets “easy”. I hate it when people say it. That is the biggest lie ever. It doesn’t get easy. You just get used to it.
Wow. This brings me back. My dad will have been gone 3 years on November 10th. The passing times does not make it easier. It makes it…harder. Harder to remember his voice, the twinkle in his eye, the way he smelled and the way he hugged. Sigh. My dad was named Bill too. I can say as the one that got the phone call, then raced down the road to get to his side, only to be told I didn’t make it in time…there is no easier way, for either side. My sweet sister, lives with the image of him struggling to breathe, but I live with the guilt of not being close in his last moments and of not having the chance to at least try to save him. The hardest part for me to face is now. At this moment I am six weeks pregnant with a child my dad will never hold and it is breaking my heart.
I’ll be honest, this post made me cry. Ugly cry even.
My mom passed away in April of this year. It was something that was coming for years, but I still remember feeling shocked. I think in a way, I still am. We had a love/hate relationship, and I thought I would be fine with her dying. I’m not. Like Cynthia above, I’m only just starting to realize how much of me is wrapped up in who she was. I haven’t seen my father in 25 years, so I feel pretty much like an orphan. I never realized how much I would miss her.
Thanks for writing this.
I lost my father 3.5 years ago. He was just 61, I was only 27. Absolutely and without a doubt the most painful, devastating event of my life. He went to the ER one day with severe abdominal pain, and was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer that had metastasized to other organs. Chemo was mentioned, but ultimately he didn’t make it that far. On May 7, 2008, he died, just 2 weeks after the initial diagnosis. Two weeks. He never even got to come back home.
I still wonder how I made it through that time, as I had just started a new job, my best friend had just had a baby and I lost the last 3 of my remaining grandparents within about 6 months of my dad’s death.
To this day I still have moments of “inactivity” where I almost “forget” what happened to him, just for a moment, and then I have to deal with the grief anew when I realize again that he’s gone. I know it will never stop hurting, I know I will always grieve for him, but time passes and every day I get stronger.
I choose to believe that he is always with me, that though his physical form is gone, his spirit and soul live on always in my heart and in the hearts of all those who loved him. I know that he wants me to be happy and live a full life. So I embrace all the memories and carry them with me always. And I’ve definitely learned how to derive strength from the pain. Living through this horrific trauma has taught me how better to deal with all of life’s challenges, because they generally pale in comparison to what I went through.
I live to make my dad proud. I hope I do.