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As strange as it sounds, I don’t grieve the loss of my father. At least, not in the same way I grieve the loss of others, like my mother. I call it my divine paradox. Let me explain.
I’m a baby boomer who, for most of my life, wanted more from my father. Oh, I knew he loved me. Growing up, there was food on the table and a roof over my head. He slept down the hall every night, and he provided for me and my siblings, sometimes working two jobs to do so. As much as I treasured those things, I wanted more.
I wanted him to ask me how I was, to be willing to listen to my side of the story, and to comfort me when there were tears. I wanted to be able to talk to him about the things that mattered to me. Once, when I tried to express something difficult, he said, “Yvonne, I just can’t talk about this. It’s not my way.” I felt the distance between us—not the connection I wanted.
All that changed when I was in my early sixties. It was a dark and dreary winter night, and Dad and I were on our weekly phone call. He lived on the other side of the state, and we used these calls to talk about his dialysis treatments, his doctor’s appointments, or the in-home care he was receiving. Usually, once we’d exhausted those topics, we’d find it difficult to talk about much else. We didn’t seem to share any other common interests.
But on this night, Dad did something unusual. He told me a quirky, funny, and scary story from his time serving in WWII. It was a first, his talking about the war. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard this story before. There must be others, I thought.
On our next call, I asked if he could start at the beginning. I wanted to know what prompted him to sign up, what training was like, where he served during the war, and whether he was scared. I started taking notes and for the next year, story after story came rolling off his tongue. With each story, I learned something new about the man I’d always known but hadn’t known at all. His fears, his vulnerabilities, his bravado, his friendships. I felt our relationship shift.
Here was the dad I always wanted.
Advance Directives
At the time, I was working in a retirement community. It was there that I came face to face with the subject of death and dying.
I saw firsthand what not having end-of-life plans did to many of the residents and their families. The grief of having a loved one near death was magnified by the lack of documentation that specified how the resident wanted to be treated, both emotionally and physically.
I was a member of the ethics team, and one of our residents with severe dementia needed treatment. The daughter was her healthcare agent and she disagreed with our recommendation for treatment. Even though an advance directive was in place for this resident, it had been written in another state that recognized “quality of life” as a reason to deny treatment. Since our state did not recognize the same thing, the case ended up in court.
I did not want this to be my father’s story.
As the years passed, Dad became diabetic and his health became more fragile. I knew he had a will, but I didn’t know if he had given any thought to other end-of-life documents. As difficult as it was, my retirement home experience told me I had to ask.
We’d become closer since the year of weekly phone calls exploring his war experience, but this was not going to be a comfortable conversation—for either of us. I worried and I fretted and wrote and rewrote my opening line. Finally, I called.
“Do you know what an advance directive is?” I asked.
“No, what’s that?”
After I explained it to him, I asked if he’d allow me to contact an attorney to begin the process of drafting one for him. I said that I’d come home to go with him to the meetings. He agreed, and soon Dad had his own advance directives document. Dad had even made me his healthcare agent, meaning he trusted me to speak for him when he was unable to speak for himself.
The Elephant in the Room
There’s an expression: “The elephant in the living room.” Everyone in the room sees it, but no one can talk about it. The subject of death and dying is like that.
Many people I’ve spoken to have told me they fear bringing it up—they don’t know what to say or how to begin the conversation. They fear the reaction of their loved ones, or they fear that saying the words will somehow hasten their death. Some likely fear facing the reality of their own death. Others have said they don’t have that kind of a relationship with their family members, saying they’d be shot down, shut down, or made to feel like an outsider or just plain stupid.
So, they don’t go there. And important things get left unsaid.
The Feelings Behind the Words
Talking about death and dying with my father became easier after doing the advance directive together. Sometimes, getting tired of the pain, or of being old or alone, he’d initiate the conversation by saying he was “ready to go.” I would follow that with, “Dad, tell me more.”
I always looked for the feelings behind his words. If he seemed at ease, I’d just listen without interruption. If there was an edge to his voice, I knew not to press him further.
If he mentioned something specific, I would ask him an open-ended question about it. If he mentioned his funeral, I’d ask him what kind of funeral he wanted. If he mentioned his children, I asked what he wanted us to know. If he talked about being in pain, I asked him how comfortable he wanted to be as the end neared. His answers were very specific, and I wrote every one of them down.
On our last phone call, he told me he was scared, and he asked me to come home. I drove across the state the next day, and two and a half hours after arriving, he was gone. As he lay unconscious and the EMTs began their work to revive him, I pointed to Dad’s do-not-resuscitate order. Because he’d had legally stated that I could speak for him when he couldn’t speak for himself, and because he was comfortable enough asking me to come home, I was able to ensure we all honored his wishes.
I did something difficult to achieve something wonderful. Dad’s gift to me was his trust in me, and my gift to him was to honor that trust.
Tough Talks for Easier Endings
Through all this, I learned three specific things that can help you lay the groundwork to have your own difficult conversation with a loved one to give them an easier ending.
1. Change the way you listen.
In challenging conversations, where someone is talking about a hurt, a disappointment, or a frustration, take a deep breath. While doing so, focus all your attention on them. If they pause, ask them to tell you more, and keep your focus on listening to them. When they’ve finished, validate what they’ve said: “I think I understand—you’re lonely, everyone you love is gone, and you would like to go as well.”
2. Don’t bring your fears forward.
Keep the conversation about them. Don’t shut them down by saying things like, “Don’t say that! You have years to live!” Or “What would we do without you?” or, “I don’t want to talk about this, it’s too hard.” Each of these shuts the person off from being able to talk to you.
3. Get comfortable with the topic.
To have a meaningful conversation with someone else about what they want, you must be comfortable with the subject. Use a journal and write about how you feel about your own death and dying. How would you like it to be? How comfortable do you want to be? Who would you want with you? Do you want to be buried or cremated? What other questions do you need to ask yourself? If you can’t answer these questions, seek out the help of a professional or group that can help you answer these questions: attorneys specializing in end-of-life, palliative care and hospice professionals, and death doulas.
