Just nine days remain. Nine days until the anniversary of my dad’s passing arrives, marking the end of my ritual of connecting this year’s events to those of the last. Over the past year, I’ve found solace in recalling moments we shared; I can say, “This time last year, we did that.” I’ve unearthed receipts reflecting the food he cherished, reminding me of our laughter and companionship. Two days from now marks our final conversation, a bittersweet exchange during a pre-season football game. That night, he enjoyed a big meal, and those around him were relieved to see him eat — “You need your strength,” we often reminded him as we watched him grow frailer, his cheeks hollow and legs like twigs.
The Bears lost that evening, and he switched off the TV in frustration, pointing fingers at the players he believed were to blame. I made my bed on the couch beside him, ensuring he received his medication on time. The hospice nurse referred to his sudden pain as “breakthrough pain,” which could strike unexpectedly and intensely. We had to keep his morphine doses consistent to manage it. He resisted the hospital bed, a symbol of his illness, so we encouraged him, “Dad, it’s more comfortable—see how easy it is to get in and out?” I spoke to him as if he were a child, manipulating the bed’s remote control to demonstrate.
He slept peacefully that night, but the following day, he was no longer truly present. His body remained, but it operated on autopilot as he attempted to execute the same daily tasks he had managed for 70 years. He shuffled his feet for the last time, his mind clouded, disconnected from our presence. He lay on that plastic-covered mattress, flannel pillows forming his usual nest, eyes closed. I discovered the meaning of a new term: unresponsive.
Unconsciousness is a state of unawareness, while unresponsiveness signifies an inability to react. “Watch what you say; he can still hear you,” a friend warned me, recalling how her own father had responded with a thumbs-up shortly before he passed. I kept the nurses at bay when they spoke of his dwindling time and the condition of his skin. I held the phone to his ear as distant family members expressed their love, learning to stifle my sobs to keep him from hearing my grief. I reassured him that everything would be alright, trying to lighten the mood with a touch of humor, “You raised an incredible daughter; I’ll manage everything. The Lila-girl has it all under control.” He used to call me the Lila-girl.
When my three boys came to say their goodbyes, they stood by his bedside, tears streaming down their faces. “Dad, the boys are here,” I announced cheerfully, introducing them with their playful nicknames, “Ethan the Brave, Max the Great, and Leo the Lion.” A faint smile crossed his face.
As the week progressed, his breathing became slower and more labored. Family members advised me to leave his room for a while, suggesting that he might find it harder to let go with me present. The sun streamed through the blinds, and an oldies station played softly in the background. I kissed his forehead, stroked his hair, and whispered, “Dad, I’m heading out for a good night’s rest.” I held his hand gently, promising to return in the morning. As I stood up, the radio emitted a soft pop and fell silent. I froze. Oddly enough, that felt like a sign of farewell. He passed away early the next day.
Now, a half-open bag of frozen peas languishes in my freezer, a remnant from over a year ago. My dad had lived with us during his final six months, sometimes mustering the energy to cook. One night, he prepared his favorite dish — rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. I haven’t touched those peas since that meal; they have transformed into a poignant symbol of memory. The plastic bag, securely fastened with a thick rubber band, rests in the far corner of the freezer. Occasionally, while searching for frozen waffles or ice cream, I catch a glimpse of it and pause to reflect.
Time moves swiftly, and it’s difficult to grasp that nearly a year has passed since I lost my animated, life-of-the-party father. Yet the human spirit is remarkably resilient, pushing us toward a semblance of normalcy. Many have reassured me, “It gets easier; the first year is tough.” And it has indeed become easier. Perhaps on day 366, I’ll finally decide what to do with those peas. But for now, I have nine more days.
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Summary: In this reflective piece, Lila Thompson recounts her experience mourning her father’s death while holding onto a bag of frozen peas that symbolizes cherished memories. As she navigates her grief, she recalls significant moments from their time together, illustrating the bittersweet nature of loss and the resilience of the human spirit.