My Unsung Hero

I talk a lot about my mom, which I love. Specifically, I’ve said (or written) a good bit about how her death ultimately led me to this work, how her approach to her end-of-life was so uniquely inspiring, and how her dying process showed those of us around her what’s possible.

But there’s someone I haven’t written about who helped foster that space for my mom - my dad, Victor.

The backstory here is that he and my mom were married for over twenty years before divorcing in the early 2000s. Thankfully my mom remained close to my dad’s family (her own family members having died years before), and she and my dad were able to retain a solid friendship. She even met my dad’s new partner, Connie, at my grandparent’s 60th wedding anniversary party, talking for hours together at a table to themselves.

Cut to 2013 when my mom was diagnosed with cancer for the third and final time. My (then) husband, Doug, and I quickly made arrangements to move to Fort Worth so we could support her through the end of her life. We got back in the early summer of that year and fell into a routine that almost let us forget she was dying.

Then came December.

My dad, who was up from Austin visiting, offered to pick her up and take her to our family holiday at my grandparents retirement complex. When Doug and I arrived, I saw her interacting (or rather, trying to interact) with everyone and it was so obvious that she was not okay. It hit me like a punch to the stomach - how was this possible? I saw her often and she was always her chipper, witty self. But this situation - where she was not at home, and interacting with more people for longer amounts of time - really showed how much the disease had progressed. Things escalated quickly from there, with Doug and I moving into her guest bedroom while hospice set her up to die at home. However, we still had to go to work and she really didn’t need to be alone anymore...

Enter my dad, who offered to temporarily move up to Fort Worth (with my mom’s approval and Connie’s blessing) so he could be a part of this little team that would ensure my mom was safe, comfortable, and cared for.

And so, booking a room at an extended stay hotel nearby, he was there throughout the days and, as she began to actively die, through the nights as well. Together we created a space filled with a lot of laughing alongside crying, music, flowers, visits from friends, and constant love. Him being there, for the duration of the experience, ensured that she was never alone and always supported. Case in point, Doug told me about one scene he happened upon in the middle of the night that just about undid him; my dad laying on the floor beside the couch where my mom was stationed, both of them fast asleep, with my dad’s arm reaching up so he could hold her hand.

She died on the morning of December 29th, 2013.

From there, he offered to rent a storage unit where we could put her things that still remained so I could slowly go through them. Though I greatly appreciated the offer, I knew I had what I wanted (as did her family and friends) and if I dragged out the process it would get harder to let things go. Instead, we rented a U-Haul and took everything to a donation facility where I cried in the cab of the truck while he and the employees at the facility unloaded what was left of my mom’s possessions. The slow crawl back to everyday life began soon after.

I cannot imagine going through the experience of my mom’s dying and death without my dad there. And I can only imagine what a comfort it was to my mom to have him - someone so effortlessly familiar - by her side. I don’t think any of us could have predicted things falling in place the way they did, but it was perfect. And I’m forever grateful.

So cheers to my dad, Victor, aka Jolly, aka Captain Vic. I love you.

And to those who read this, let it be a reminder to let love show up and hold your hand, bringing comfort during the most uncomfortable times. Let it shoulder some of the weight that is simply to heavy to carry alone. Let it show you just how limitless and enduring it can be. As I’ve seen up close and personal, it can turn a heartbreaking situation into a heartbreakingly beautiful one.