That Time My Dad Died

dementia

I’m back.

If you are wondering where I’ve been….

…my dad died.

He died about 3 weeks after his wife (my step-mother) died.

There’s a lot to be unpacked here, as you might expect. And I will keep some of it to myself and save some of it for future posts.

But let me tell you about something that I didn’t expect to experience.

For the last couple months of my life, I was my dad’s person. I was his caregiver. I advocated for him. I’m an only child. I had all the support a person could ask for from my people, but I was his person. I made all the decisions. He depended on me. He trusted me. Sometimes I felt like it was us against the world.

I spent about 8 weeks focused on my dad’s next step. First, he was in a nursing home. His wife was in a different nursing home about 45 minutes away. I worked to get him transferred to be with his wife. It was a win.

She died 48 hours later.

Then I worked to get him transferred to a nursing home to be closer to my husband and me. Right before this happened, he fell at the nursing home he was at and ended up in the hospital for 9 days.

While he was in the hospital, I (again) worked on getting him discharged to a place by us. Finally, he was sent 90 minutes on a non-emergency transport to a nursing home about 3/4 of a mile from our house on hospice care. He made it to the nursing home by our house. It was a win.

A week later, he passed away in the 10 minute gap between my husband leaving the nursing home and me arriving to be with him for the next shift. I texted “He’s gone,” to my husband and he was there in an instant. The cremation services came to get him within an hour. And that was that.

Then I went home and took a nap. My friend Kim had planned to bring dinner to the nursing home. Instead, we went out to eat. I had a chicken quesadilla. Then I went to my husband’s slow pitch softball game.

I saw quite a few people I knew. Many already had heard that my dad died.

But a few of them had not heard and were like, “Hey, Elaine! How are you?”

I couldn’t think of a good response. I couldn’t say I was good or fine. If I wasn’t straight up, I felt like I was lying by omission, so I would say, “My dad died.” They all responded to my awkwardness with grace and compassion. A fried on the opposing team gave me a White Claw.

I woke up the next morning feeling a bit…empty. Honestly, I had no idea what to do. My dad didn’t want any services. There was no funeral or gathering to plan. I was grateful to him because I hate planning events. My dad avoided mingling at all costs, even in death.

I laid in my bed with our pups and watched Missing: Dead or Alive on Netflix for half of the day. Our cats graced us with their presence off and on.

Then I got up and shampooed the carpet in our hallway.

Next I watched a couple episodes of My 600 Pound Life.

I had done everything I could for so long, and now there was nothing to do. Well, except shampoo the carpet in our hallway. For the first time in a long time, no one needed me. Well, except the pets and the hallway carpet.

I didn’t realize I had embraced this advocacy/caregiving role. It was stressful and exhausting. But somehow its absence left me empty. I expected to be in that role longer.

And I wanted to rewind time.

I wanted to rewind time to the times that I didn’t consider to be good times. Maybe they weren’t good times. But there were good moments within those times.

Not that I had regrets. I’m proud of how hard I worked to move my dad along on this journey. I was assertive. I did my research. I used my social skills and connected with people to get my dad what he needed. If I were to list things in my life that make me proud, this would be somewhere near the top of the list.

It’s selfish for me to say I would rewind time. He suffered. Shortness of breath. Anxiety. Terminal agitation. Fear. He didn’t deserve that. No one does.

I didn’t like that he went through that. But if he had to go through that, I wanted to be there. I was there.

I thought I had more time. I was going to walk the dogs up to the nursing home to watch Wheel of Fortune a few times a week. I planned to continue to try to convince him to watch something more politically neutral than Fox News. I thought I’d make him meatloaf. Perhaps that was a bit of a pipe dream because I hate cooking and have no idea what goes into meatloaf.

But no matter. He died.

I am a little lost. When you are someone’s person and that person isn’t around anymore, perhaps it’s normal to be lost.

Today I took a nap. I woke up in a state of anxiety. I don’t remember my dream, but I was short of breath upon waking because my dad died and I knew I had forgotten to do something. I was searching to brain to figure out what I had forgotten.

I had him cremated.

I contacted the lawyer.

I emailed the guy at the bank.

Oh, shit. Did I pick up his cremations?

Wait. Yeah, my husband brought him home.

Did I have a funeral? No–because he didn’t want one.

Did I write an obit? Yes–and it was really good (see below).

What am I missing?

My dad’s dead; what the hell am I supposed to be doing now?

I am working on letting go of the caregiver role, but I’ve got a new role: condo flipper. My dad and stepmother’s condo needs some work before it can go on the market. If I don’t know how to do something, I can just google it, right?

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on. –Robert Frost

Roy’s obituary:

https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/legacyremembers/walter-eshbaugh-obituary?id=51973551

13 thoughts on “That Time My Dad Died”

  1. Just came across this post as I realized I hadn’t seen your posts in awhile. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing. Time does seem to move at a different pace as a caregiver and grief is in a time zone all of its own.

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  2. Elaine, I understand…having been through 4 family members since 2012 including both my parents and having been their advocates, their ‘person’ well, I get it. When my dad passed, I went out to dinner for a burger and a glass of wine which most people didn’t understand. But I did…
    If you want a friend, please reach out…I’m here…sending heartfelt hugs 💝
    P.S. I learned that they sometimes use that window of 10 minute time to pass when they really want to save us from beimg there in the midst of the process of last breaths and all that entails. It’s their way of protecting you…

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  3. My condolences on your Dad’s passing Elaine. Your post made me laugh, cry a little and most of all educated me on how I might feel when I lose my last parent. That’s a pretty special talent for those few words!

    Nice to have you back,

    Joanna McGowan Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada

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  4. So sorry to hear of your loss Elaine. It’s hard. It’s hard to care for them, it’s hard to see them be less than, it’s hard to lose them and then it’s hard to figure out what to do next. I’ve been following you for some time now as my Dad was diagnosed with dementia several years ago and as it progressed it got harder and your guidance helped. Luckily I’m one of six children so I didn’t have to do this alone. Three of us were fortunate enough to be with him when he passed in early March. A different three of us dealt with all the will things, a different three of us looked after his burial – unlike your Dad, ours wanted the whole shebang of a military funeral, so he got it. And then we had a party at his golf club to celebrate him.

    There’s a sense of finality, a sense of relief, a sense of guilt when people say they’re sorry for your loss but the loss was really about 2 years ago when he no longer knew where he was. Thankfully, to the end, he knew who we all were and was always happy to see us, even if he couldn’t express it.

    Your guidance helped us through and I thank you for that. I’ll be continuing to follow your blog – your posts are helpful for many of life’s situations and I doubt very much that dementia won’t be part of my life again.

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  5. Elaine,

    You probably don’t remember me, but I took your 8:00am low impact aerobics classes at the Rec Center.

    I have heard you speak many times and have so much respect for what you do. I thoroughly enjoy your blog.

    My dad has Alzheimer’s and currently lives at Western Home Thalman Square. They have been there for 3 years and dad is 88. He is on a waitlist for Martin Suites as he will soon have to go on Medicaid. My mom is in assisted living at Windhaven (same building).

    I am so very sorry to hear about your dad. I cannot imagine what you are going through. I suspect I will feel the same when my dad passes. My sister and I have power of attorney, both medical and financial. Much of our lives revolves around my folks and making sure they are cared for.

    You have my deepest condolences.

    Caren Kruse

    Sent from my iPhone

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    1. Caren—Yes, I remember you for from the Rec. I am sorry for what you are going through. Dealing with the Medicaid stuff is so challenging… I hope he transitions well to Martin Suites. Thank you so much for reaching out to me.

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  7. My wishes for your own peace and comfort, Elaine, and I get what you’re going through. (Read the rest of this when you’re ready – not trying to one-up you, just sharing why I do understand sort of what you are facing.)

    My mother-in-law just passed away two weeks ago; she was the last of the parents. She lived near us in a small group home, having moved to Texas from Michigan a few years after her husband of nearly 60 years had died, but wanting to be in her own place. She was nearing 93, had survived COVID twice, and had been a co-passenger on the Dementia train for 30+ years, but thankfully was always kind and always her often silly self. Her son/my husband has Lewy Body Dementia, and his care is my charge, too, but thanks to long-term care insurance, I have help with him as I am still working and need to for a good 5 more years at least.

    I am now planning her funerals – plural – because it will be too much for her son to travel to Michigan where she wanted her funeral, and too much on all of us to manage anyone traveling here, so I decided two funerals that I could manage would be the better option. (I’ll let you know in a few weeks if I should have re-thought that…however, I am a recovering meeting planner, and seem to think this is the kind of stuff I can do on auto-pilot, sort of.)

    Not having her these last two weeks as completely messed with me, and the routine I didn’t realize I had become so accustomed to, and I’m a little lost, too.

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    1. Sigh….I cannot imagine two funerals. You are certainly a different person than I am, and I hope your meeting organization skills get you through! I am so sorry for your loss and all you are going through.

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  8. I’m sorry about the losses of your dad and stepmom. And the loss of a caregiving purpose is real! I’m still feeling it more than 2 years after my mom died. But I want to say that your workshops, blog entries, and other teachings helped me to be a better caregiver and helped my mom live a better life until the end. Thank you for all you do. I am thinking of you and your family as you grieve and carry on. I appreciate you.

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