Sigh of Relief

My father died June 25.

But my real father died several years before that.  I can't place an exact date, but I lost him for good sometime in the Fall of 2003.

Alzheimer's disease stole pieces of him as early as 1999.  And then kidnapped and killed him by 2003.

The shell of the man left behind wore his face, but it was not him.  The shell of the man had his voice, but it was not him.  The shell of the man lived, but it was not him.

The last 3 years of the Shell-man was in a vigil state coma, a wakeful semi-conscience place, not dead but alive.  Constricted muscles, treac in his neck, Shell-man could open his eyes and move his arm.

That was it.

My father read the New York Times, every morning.  He loved photography, and was into computers before it was in every household.  Even though he had lived stateside for over 50 years, he spoke with the most beautiful Puerto Rican accent.  Like having Ricardo Montalban in you house. "Janie!  Breekfas'!  Come don to eeet!"

He had ticklish feet.  A trait you don't share with a little girl that loves to make her father tuck up his feet under the blankets.  And he loved to watch boxing.  The old timers; the Greatest, Ali.  I would sit in the living room and try to understand the shorthand he spoke to my grandpa.  "Upper cut! Upper cut!  Jab, jab! Knockout!!"  My uncle could make him laugh so hard tears would slip from the corners of his eyes. We would watch the Muppets and Jeopardy!  We could discuss Andy Rooney being such a cranky old man.

My favorite memory is from September 3, 2001.  Having the day off for Labor Day, I ran some errands, then met Pop in midtown to see "Amelie".  He bought the tickets, I got the popcorn.  For two hours my Pop and I watched the sweet French woman in hues of green and red.  Paris was a feast of color, and we ate it up selfishly.  After the movie, we talked about all the different neighborhoods we'd recognized, how as a family we needed to go back, (we were always finding reasons to vacation in Paris as a family), how beautiful the day.

During his three year coma, I came across so many women who didn't have such an incredible relationship with their fathers.  Women who now had hateful relationships with their husbands, or ex-husbands.  Women who spread their legs for any man that looked in their direction.  Women who barely spoke to the fathers because .... just because.

I always kissed Shell-man, told him how much I loved him.  Told him, he could GO, if the time was right.  If his eyes were open, I would look for my father.  Sometimes I could see him.  Most times, there was emptiness, a void.  He may not have been in pain, but we suffered as a family.  Yet we soldiered through.  Mom Jane would visit every day.  The nursing staff knew her, and she knew them all, by name or nickname.  My brother, the rockstar, progressed from being too scared to be in the building to sitting by his side.  And I would bring Mini Me Jane, always.  The cycle of Life includes weakness and sickness, not just picnics by the beach.

The mourning process isn't just for death; I believe it's for any loss, any life challenge/crisis.  Divorce, sudden job loss, fire, flood.  Denial, bargaining, anger, sadness and finally, release.  Letting go.  There is no guide for when the steps should happen, no timeline for how long they should last.  And the purpose for the process is to give the individual life balance.  The process becomes a solid foundation.

We mourned him while he was in the coma.  All the steps, but one.  When Pop Shell-man finally died, we were relieved.  He was at peace; we could let go. Sigh.  Exhale.  The final step.