I’m feeling it all over again; this the first anniversary of that third week of September. My feelings are not as raw. I know how that week ends. On Monday, I flashed back to Dr. Shaw sitting with us in the waiting area outside his room. The three of us huddled around him on those garish yellow vinyl chairs. Trying to offer hope, he said, “Maybe he’ll make it to Christmas,” but I knew that timetable was overly optimistic.

On Tuesday, the memory of our huddle in the hospital cafeteria invaded my psyche as I made a tomato sandwich for lunch. Last year, on speakerphone, my brother, sister, and I talked with hospice, feeling like deer in the headlights. 

Picking apples at my local farm store, I lost my balance on Wednesday, remembering our intimate moments in the evenings at the hospital. I zealously guarded my time preparing him for sleep by dropping his teeth in Efferdent and plugging his “ears” in to be recharged. 

As the Thursday sky turned deep blue, then black, over the cornfields surrounding my rural Connecticut home, I remembered the terror we felt as darkness fell that first evening after bringing him home. Lying in the hospital bed in his living room, Dad sought clarity in his confusion: “I don’t understand what’s happening. I know I am home. I know you’re all here…” He straddled this realm and the next. 

Tears fell as I remembered that first night home. Frantic for air, he struggled to get out of bed. “My tank!” he said with increasing desperation. It took three of us to keep him safe. It wasn’t until I gave him my phone playing music from Carousel, his favorite musical, that he settled. 

Over and over again this week, I saw the otherworldly peace and look in his eyes as Shirley Jones sang, “When you walk through a storm, keep your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark.” Feeling that memory, I recalled a conversation we had several years ago when he said, “I’m not in a hurry to go, but I’m ready.”

I spent the first two nights with him at home beside his bed in that rickety Martin Crane recliner. I was in and out of sleep, disturbed by every sound he made. Checking his breathing, I whispered, “Daddy, I’m here. I love you.” 

On the third night, Friday, my siblings, daughter, and nephews sent me back to my brother’s house to get a good night’s sleep. It was that night that Daddy ceased breathing. I rushed back to his apartment. “Mo chridhe briste!” My heart was broken.

Winter was a season of broken-heartedness in which I spent too much time on the couch. Every movement took effort. With spring and summer, my sense of wellness and wholeness—without forgetting the man who raised me—has increased. And during this week of re-remembering, the season of deep grief is shifting once again. I can see both the week of loss and the year since it that I’ve spent integrating my loss into a new version of who I am.