The Squiggle of Life — A Beginning At An End.

Two weeks ago today I lost my dad after a battle with an infection that took him away from us in pieces over a few weeks.

Two weeks and a day ago I’d have looked at “lost” as a euphemism, a way of deflecting the reality of what actually happens when someone dies.

But two weeks in, lost seems apt.  It feels like my dad is the world’s most important set of keys.  I know he has to be around here somewhere because I am home.  But I’ve torn the place apart and I can’t find him.

As my dad got older, I have thought about what it would be like when he died. It is nothing like what I imagined.

I have no frame of reference, only the bits and pieces I have picked up from friends and family who have lost their parents.

My mom lost both of her parents much younger than I am now at 47.  I did not know either and have always sensed my mom’s eternal sorrow and regret when she talks about them or sees them.  Several years ago she had two minutes of 8 mm film transferred of their wedding, and I remember crying at seeing two people I’d only known from photographs coming to life in front of my eyes.   My mom has talked about both her mom and dad in loving fragments, and I’ve never thought to ask more about them.  I suspect because subconsciously it was too raw, even decades later.

My dad lost his mom early as well.  I did not know her either, and it is to my eternal regret that I never talked much about her with my dad.  I’d thought of getting a video camera or audio recorder and talking to him so I could have record of the things I didn’t know about.   I didn’t because I thought it would feel artificial.  And now it’s too late.

My dad’s father died when I was in college.  He was the first real death I experienced. I remember my uncle Henry smiling at me and squeezing my hand as we stood at his casket.   We'd driven all day to get there and my dad had a dental emergency that meant we got to the funeral home after visiting hours were over.  I remember the funeral director opening the doors so dad could go in.  And I remember the tears hitting him. 

I assumed my dad was okay.  His dad was 90.  My dad was 53.  It was the natural order of things.  The circle of life. But now I wonder how much he was hurting and how much I never knew.   The circle of life should be comforting.  But what if it's less a perfect circle and more a crooked squiggle we have to untangle.