Three weeks ago, I posted an article here in the Attic on the subject of mourning. The following week, regular visitors will have noticed, there was no new article. The reason was because I was back home in Pennsylvania, fully expecting to be engaged in some mourning of my own.
My father was in the hospital, and wasn't expected to pull through. So I flew home, hoping against hope that he'd surprise everyone with a full recovery.
And he pretty much did.
Oh, in his condition, there was no way he'd ever be fully recovered. At nearly 83 years of age, with heart disease and emphysema, it was just a matter of time.
I hadn't seen him in almost three years, not since early 1998, when I moved West. We spoke by phone on more or less a weekly basis, but I hadn't been able to make it home in that time.
And they were critical years, as far as his health was concerned. In '98, Dad was still living in the house I'd grown up in. But two years later, he moved to what was called an "independent living facility." People were there to tend on him, though not as closely as in a nursing home. Living on his own was out of the question by this time.
I know my older brother bore the heaviest burden, since he still lives in our home town. He was the one who would visit Dad regularly. He was the one who'd run his errands and had to listen to him complain about the lousy food and so on. But worst of all, he was the one who saw his deterioration over time.
Dad had frequent stays in the hospital over the past three years, and every time, it would be my brother who called me. Since he almost never called me other than when Dad was in the hospital, I always panicked when I heard his voice on the phone. I always knew one day the call would come that was the one I really didn't want to hear. And two weeks ago, I really thought that was it.
I'm really glad I went home then. I got to spend a few days with my family, and see my father for the first time in years. He didn't look good, but his mind was still sharp, when unclouded by morphine. We shared smiles and laughs.
Not long after my return to California, his health declined again. He was in a lot of pain and wasn't eating. Earlier today, I called my brother to get a status report, since I hadn't heard anything for several days. He wasn't home, so I left a message.
He called a few hours ago. But it wasn't exactly a return call. It was "the call."
Our father had just died.
The depth of sadness inside me is, of course, profound. But in truth, I think I dove to the bottom of that despair two weeks ago, when everyone thought he was going to die. I was so afraid he was going to go before I saw him, and that was just not something I would've been able to deal with.
I am so incredibly glad that I got home then. But I think I knew in my heart that when I walked out of his hospital room ten days ago, I'd never see him alive again.
My father was one of the kindest, most decent people I've ever known. Much of who I am, I owe to him. I will always be proud to have called him my father.
And one of the things that I will always be grateful to him for is that he always supported my independent streak. He allowed me to make my own decisions, for better or worse. And he never challenged them, or made me feel like I was wrong for making my choices.
One of those decisions was in the matter of religion. (See, you were wondering if this was going to have anything to do with atheism, weren't you?) He and I never discussed my lack of belief. He knew of it, of course, but he respected my right to make up my own mind on the subject. Having read any number of emails from visitors to this site on how nasty some people will be to atheist family members, I know just how fortunate I was to have such an understanding father.
When I called my sister, after hearing the news tonight, she said, "He's better off now," or words to that effect. I said nothing. I know she meant that he's in heaven. And while I don't believe that, I do believe he's better off than he would have been, had he continued on the way he was going.
I've always been a "quality is better than quantity" kinda guy. My dad's quality of life was growing worse and worse as the days went on. The last week for him was particularly bad. He had no desire to be kept alive by machinery, nor did he want to lay comatose for weeks before dying, as his wife had done, almost 30 years ago.
So my sister and I agree, if not for exactly the same reason. We're both relieved that his suffering has ended.
Do I still stand by my words of three weeks ago, now that I'm experiencing the loss of my father? Yes. I do feel that the mourning process at least has the potential to be more complete for an atheist than a believer in an afterlife. Of course, the mourning process can be easy or difficult. It's up to the one doing the mourning. It would be nice to think that I'll one day see my father again. But I just can't bring myself to swallow that fairy tale.
I will always grieve the loss of the dear, sweet man who raised me. It's a process I began a few weeks ago, and will now continue. The world is a little dimmer today, without the brightness he brought to everyone.
Goodbye, Dad. I'll miss you.
