I was making plans for winter. The farm was moving into another season. I had no idea that life was making plans of its own.
We all know it's possible. Most of us have experienced the unexpected in one form or another—an illness, a pandemic, job loss, missing your flight... lost luggage? Still, when it happens suddenly, without any warning, our psychological response is often shock, doubt, or denial. I remember learning about the stages of grief. I wasn't so sure about the denial phase. Or maybe I just didn't believe that phase included death. Death is pretty black and white. You are or you are not.
When my grandmother (who was my other mom) died, she had been on her way to the airport with my older brother. She was headed to Florida to see her longtime partner and her sister, and to get out of the cold of a Northeast January. I went to the hospital. We had a funeral. Honestly, I don't remember much of either. I do remember that for almost two years, whenever my phone (the one on the wall) rang, I kept expecting it to be her. Her death was sudden, and my brain had created a story that she wasn't dead. She was merely in Florida.
I understand that response a little differently now. I've experienced similar reactions to loss since then—thankfully, not surrounding death. But this time, as I find myself facing the possibility of losing my father, I recognize that same space between what I know and what my mind is willing to accept. The disbelief. The waiting for someone to come back. The feeling that surely there has been some mistake.
We closed The River Runs Through Coffee Shop & Farmhouse Store for the season after a glorious day of dressing up for Halloween. Sharing cake pops and butterfly wands. Making our way through a grass maze (Rob did an impressive job!). With the shop closed, I had just begun settling into the the winter season on the farm. There was the usual post-season cleanup, putting things away, and beginning preparations for winter. I had just cleaned up my "artistic" mess (you could think of it as just a plain old mess, yet it happened during a creative frenzy), picking fruit, drying fruit, and planning my next projects. I even repotted the plants that had been looking at me sadly, saying, "WE NEED MORE SPACE!"
I was outside on another glorious day. I can't explain the weather, as it's strange for a New England fall. I was finding tiny pinecones and selecting a range of pine branches for jewelry and Yule logs. I hadn't realized pine has a variety of smells! I came inside to prepare for my weekly call with a close friend who lives in the UK. You know what happens when you haven't looked at your phone for a few hours? That's exactly when everyone decides to contact you.
A text from my older brother, Neil:
"Dad's been airlifted... head... broken skull... brain bleeds... surgery."
I said it out loud, not really believing it, and sent a message to my friend that I couldn't talk.
Another text, this time from my sister Monique:
"Sis, don't know if you've heard... at the hospital..."
I sent texts and received a bit more information from my older brother. I had to tell my kids.
"I have no idea what any of this means," I told them.
My dad is 74 years old. Seventy-four. Somehow, that number seems both young and old when you're suddenly confronted with the possibility that you could lose a parent. I hoped he would make it out of surgery alive. Neurosurgery, no matter what they show us on TV, is no small matter. I kept that thought to myself.
The following day, my youngest son, Connor, my eldest son, Niles, and his wife, Alyssa, all settled into the car for a long drive to Lahey Hospital in Burlington, Massachusetts. We arrived at exactly the time he needed another procedure to drain fluid from his spinal column due to the brain swelling. So my kids and I, and eventually my younger brother Kyle, who had flown up that morning from Maryland, sat and waited.
And waited.
My brain was stuck somewhere between denial, a little bargaining, and sadness. We waited for almost five hours, and it didn't appear we were going to get to see him. We said our goodbyes to Kyle, and he walked out with us into the hall.
As we stood there, a stretcher appeared from behind the large doors we had just moved away from. There was a great deal of hospital staff, as well as machines. I stood still, just watching, unclear whether the face I was looking at was my dad's. My brain still wasn't accepting that it could possibly be him.
I had just talked to him.
We had just made plans about him driving up and rescuing Rob and me from another electrical nightmare. We joked about my mother wanting to give "some" furniture away (the joke being that she has so much to give away, she could run her own charity shop!).
Just like my grandmother, my dad had been part of my ordinary, everyday life. There had been plans, conversations, and things left to do. Nothing about our last conversation suggested that it would be our last for a while. My mind had no reason to prepare for this. After our visit to the hospital, my daughter Anna, her husband, and my grandson flew up from DC. They, along all of his children & grandchildren have been to the hospital to see him.
I've journeyed to connect with my dad. I've done a distance healing. I've read my tarot cards. My Scotland Clan has done their own journeying & offered prayers & candle lighting. These shamanic practices are comforting. Not all that dissimilar from prayer I grew up with, it's all energy.
It's now Friday.
My projects are mostly on hold. The preparations for winter on the farm have come to a standstill. We wait.
I sit with what Hummingbird taught me: everything is exactly the way it should be.
What an incredibly different way to look at life. Especially when it seems this shouldn't be happening.
Still, I'm reminded of how fragile life can be. How interconnected we all are. The comfort of family who are simply happy to see you. The ease of coming together when we don't drag our baggage with us.
I don't have any conclusions at this point.
In the absence of being able to concentrate on most tasks, I decided to write.
I also see my dad everywhere here.
He put in every light switch, outlet, and light fixture in our home and the coffee shop. I insisted he put the light/fan combinations in our showers rather than beside them. I held all of the fixtures as he screwed in those tiny fasteners (I'm honestly amazed light fixtures stay in place!). Dad has been here from the beginning of the farm adventures. Discovering black walnuts, fruit trees, and the wonder of homegrown produce. We wouldn't be in the place we are today without him. It's a debt truly only a parent would incur.
He was barely an adult when I was born. I might have been confused about dads as a little girl. Yet now I see a grown-up. Now I see a dad who puts all of his children before himself. One who loves his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchild without reservation.
I believe he's grown into the man he always hoped he could be.
May I be able to tell him this when he wakes.
Remove the duplicated friend messageFix the timeline after the hospital visit