Losing a parent
A couple of years ago, in my one my uncomfortably introspective moods, I considered the possible outcomes on my family dynamics depending on which of my parents survived the other. It wasn't a pleasant matter to dwell on, though oddly it appears my father had given it some thought too: according to my mother, he'd frequently said he didn't want to survive her.
As it happened, I'd reached the same conclusion, worrying how my brother and I would relate to him should our mother (always the one to hold the family together) die first. She, I believed, would find it much easier to adapt to life on her own after coming to terms with his loss, and I'm glad to say she appears to be coping well - or as well as anyone could, in the circumstances. The grieving process was always bound to be tough, but she's a strong character and I have every faith in there being light at the end of this particular tunnel.
I mentioned in the post I wrote following his death that our relationship hadn't been an easy one for a few years. It's some relief to learn it was of some concern to him too, as another thing my mother mentioned to me he'd once said was that the one thing he would NOT forgive me - I'm assuming this conversation took place after I'd come out to them - was losing touch with her if he were to die first. (I told my mother I'd find it difficult to forgive myself if that were to happen.)
Even before gathering this, I'd decided I would do my utmost to support Mother throughout his illness and beyond, if the worst came to the worst. My brother's shock on seeing him (again, as reported by my mother) and obvious discomfort at seeing him reduced to such a condition for prolonged periods only reinforced my desire to help in any way possible, and realising the importance my father placed on my relationship with Mother set the seal on it. It's a form of vindication.
In those final moments, as his life ebbed away in that hospital room, I'm sure I was not alone in speaking to him in my thoughts. Even as he lay in his coffin I reiterated my promise to look after Mother, come what may.
As it happened, I'd reached the same conclusion, worrying how my brother and I would relate to him should our mother (always the one to hold the family together) die first. She, I believed, would find it much easier to adapt to life on her own after coming to terms with his loss, and I'm glad to say she appears to be coping well - or as well as anyone could, in the circumstances. The grieving process was always bound to be tough, but she's a strong character and I have every faith in there being light at the end of this particular tunnel.
I mentioned in the post I wrote following his death that our relationship hadn't been an easy one for a few years. It's some relief to learn it was of some concern to him too, as another thing my mother mentioned to me he'd once said was that the one thing he would NOT forgive me - I'm assuming this conversation took place after I'd come out to them - was losing touch with her if he were to die first. (I told my mother I'd find it difficult to forgive myself if that were to happen.)
Even before gathering this, I'd decided I would do my utmost to support Mother throughout his illness and beyond, if the worst came to the worst. My brother's shock on seeing him (again, as reported by my mother) and obvious discomfort at seeing him reduced to such a condition for prolonged periods only reinforced my desire to help in any way possible, and realising the importance my father placed on my relationship with Mother set the seal on it. It's a form of vindication.
In those final moments, as his life ebbed away in that hospital room, I'm sure I was not alone in speaking to him in my thoughts. Even as he lay in his coffin I reiterated my promise to look after Mother, come what may.
posted by Anthony at
23:47
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