Nine days remain. Just nine days until the cycle of reflecting on past events aligned with each date from the previous year comes to an end. In nine days, I will mark the anniversary of my father’s passing. Over the last year, I have found solace in recalling moments when he was still present in my life; I can say, “Last year on this date, we did this” or uncover a receipt and see that I bought his favorite snacks. I remember the laughter we shared and the warmth of his hand in mine as we watched a pre-season football game together. That evening, he enjoyed a hearty meal, much to the delight of those around him, who urged him, “You need your strength,” as we watched his health decline, his cheeks hollowed and legs frail.
The game ended with a loss, and in frustration, he turned off the TV, critiquing the players’ performances. I settled on the couch beside him to ensure he received his medication on time. The hospice nurse had cautioned us about “Breakthrough Pain,” a term for the intense discomfort that could arise if his morphine wasn’t administered consistently. He resisted sleeping on the hospital bed, which he viewed as another uncomfortable fixture in his life. “Dad, it’s more comfortable than a regular mattress,” I reassured him, manipulating the bed’s position with the remote as if he were a child.
That night, he rested soundly, only to pass away the next day. He was physically there, but his spirit seemed distant, caught in the routine he had followed for seventy years. He sought the bathroom, a sip of water, a dose of medicine, but his responses grew faint. He lay on the flannel-covered mattress, surrounded by the pillows he meticulously arranged each night. Closing his eyes, he drifted into a state I learned to define as unresponsive.
Unconscious denotes a lack of awareness, while unresponsive suggests an inability to react. A friend had warned me, “Watch your words; he can still hear you.” Her father had responded with a thumbs-up gesture the day before his own passing. With that in mind, I shooed nurses away when they discussed his condition or mentioned how his skin was beginning to break down.
I placed the phone to his ear as family members from afar expressed their love. I learned to stifle my sobs so he wouldn’t hear me. “We will be okay, Dad. No need to worry,” I promised. With his penchant for humor, I tried to lighten the mood: “You raised an incredible daughter; I’ve got everything handled. The Lila has it all under control.”
When my three sons came to say their goodbyes, they stood at his bedside, tears streaming down their faces. “Dad, the boys are here,” I said brightly, announcing their nicknames—“Jackson, the Brave; Max, the Wise; and Brody, the Adventurer.” A faint smile crossed his face.
As the week progressed, his breathing became more labored. On a Friday, my family urged me to leave. “He might hold on if you’re here.” Sunlight streamed through the blinds, and a soft oldies tune played in the background. I kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and whispered, “Dad, I’ll be back in the morning.” Just as I stood, the radio emitted a soft crackling sound and fell silent. I froze; somehow, I felt it was a sign of goodbye. He passed away early the next morning.
In the far corner of my freezer, there remains half a bag of frozen peas from over a year ago. My father lived with us during his final six months, sometimes cooking when he had the energy. One evening, he prepared his beloved dish—rigatoni with Italian sausage and peas. Since that meal, the peas have remained untouched, a poignant reminder of that time. The bag, neatly sealed with a rubber band, sits silently. Each time I rummage for frozen waffles or ice cream, I spot it and pause to reflect.
Time moves swiftly, and the reality of losing my vibrant, “life of the party” father still feels surreal. Yet the human spirit is remarkably resilient, pushing us toward a semblance of normalcy. Many people assured me, “It will get easier; the first year is the hardest.” It has become less painful. Perhaps on day 366, I will finally decide what to do with those peas.
But for now, I have nine more days.
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In summary, nine days remain until the anniversary of my father’s passing, and I find myself holding onto a bag of frozen peas that evoke cherished memories. As time progresses, I reflect on the past while recognizing the resilience of the human spirit.