Part II: The Person in Dad's Life Who Worked Full Time To Pull Us Apart.

A photo of Dad and me below, always joined at the hip. No one ever ended up pulling us apart but there's still a story to tell.

Cont. from "Part I: My Dad's Dying Process"

"He held me close and consoled me, bearing the weight of his own diagnosis while simultaneously Fathering me, as he had since the day I was born."

My Dad was told in July of 2020 that he didn't have long to live. He had already attempted an unsuccessful round of chemotherapy that impacted his mind, body and spirit in a way he understood and no longer wanted to participate in. I remember the day he wrapped his big loving arms around me and told me my time had come, to witness my parent die. My Dad had never cried in front of me much but on this day I felt his profound sadness and worry, and I cried for him. He held me close and consoled me, bearing the weight of his own diagnosis while simultaneously Fathering me, as he had since the day I was born.

CHAPTER IV:

"They continued to spend every day together as my Dad got weaker and she continued her attempts at corroding the bond that my Dad and I shared."

Following this conversation, Dad preferred to be alone, mostly because he didn't have the energy for much beyond the important work of processing his own life, which I very much respected. He slept more, sat in the garden and looked out the window, and all the while I knew how critical it was to make space for his peace. But his friend couldn't see this. They continued to spend every day together as my Dad got weaker and she continued her attempts to erode the bond that my Dad and I shared.

I will pause here to say I have been so saddened to learn that my Dad wasn't the only person who has been at this stage in their life with another who has attempted the same thing, and I write this knowing and empathizing with those of you who have experienced similar shocking and horrifying realities.

As Dad got more and more sick, he was being told troubling information about me and mostly wasn't in a lucid enough state to to manage the information. His friend had began to tell him that I she didn't like the way I dressed around him. It then moved to schedules. I could only see my Dad on certain days of the week, even as he was dying, because she had wanted more time alone with him. When Dad decided he wanted her to be his medical power of attorney, I didn't object. When Dad decided he wanted to give her many of his possessions that we had cherished together and she took without question, I didn't object. But I was beginning to think that I should talk with him. We sat down together and I asked as gently as I could if I could please be included in the conversations he was having with her about such weighty topics.

When she found out that I had spoken with my Dad and expressed some concerns about what she was doing, it got a lot worse. My Dad was sick and stressed out and I began to see more clearly that I needed to work as best and calmly as I could to get him out of her grip behind the scenes and without engaging with him about it. I had turned into a full blown Mama bear at this point willing to do anything to defend and care for my precious Father. I can only describe it as instinct kicking in, in the way I was beginning to look after him.

CHAPTER V:

"It took coaxing but she finally agreed [to talk with me], and when I asked her clearly about the accusations and falsehoods she was feeding my Dad, she threw up her hands and got down to what the real problem was for her."

Dad's friend had began to tell him that she believed I was actively working against her. Given the state he was in, he believed her. She had convinced him that she was his family, and that I was in the way of his family unit. At this point, I had a dark night of the soul. With many therapy sessions and good friends to help keep me pulled together for the sake of Dad, I conceded and told him I would respect his wishes. I would leave, I would shut up, I would do whatever he needed and be whoever he needed me to be in that moment. I loved and continue to love my Dad unconditionally. His wish was my command, given the circumstances. I remember the last time Dad and I talked about it. A flicker of lucidity flashed in his eyes, and for a moment, I had my Dad back again. I could see he was sorry, ashamed, for the accusations that his friend had launched at me through him. He was shocked that he was in this state and for a moment he told me that he needed to get away from her, even if just emotionally. We embraced and I told him I had understood, I did understand. He gave me a beautiful gift in that moment though temporary, he told me that he knew something had gone terribly wrong but warned he wouldn't be able to maintain the fleeting lucidity he had. My mission was his mental safety and loving him out of this world as gently as we could.

I asked Dad's friend if she would speak with me alone. She protested and wanted my Dad present. I told her no. I wasn't involving Dad in this any further and I needed space to talk with her as adults. It took coaxing but she finally agreed, and when I asked her clearly about the accusations and falsehoods she was feeding my Dad, she threw up her hands and got down to what the real problem was for her.

She chose her words carefully and began with her belief that the bond my Dad and I shared was "unusual". She told me she didn't like the way I rubbed lotion on his dry arms to soothe his skin through chemo, she didn't like what I wore around him, she didn't like the way I talked with him, and she didn't like that Dad called me "sweetie". She didn't like that I wanted to spend so much time with him during this chapter of his life. As she spoke, I was reading through the lines. I won't even utter here what I know she was trying to say, what she was trying to do. All I can and will say about it here is that I was deeply disturbed by what I was hearing and was growing more and more concerned by the minute, by the day, about what Dad and I were really up against.

I have worked hard to try and understand how she must have been feeling. That she must have had a hard childhood, that she must not have had a good Father of her own, that she must be losing something so great in my Father that this was her last desperate attempt at clinging to him. I still don't know, and I have to work actively to process this so I can work through and eventually get to the other side of it.

I believe that my Dad had been fed the same information that I was being told, and was starting to believe it too. But as the months went on, Dad and I silently maintained what we had always had together, given we hardly got any time alone anymore, we communicated mostly through glances, a smile, and silent understanding.

---

"We all sit on the edge of a mystery. We have only known this life, so dying scares us―and we are all dying. But what if dying were perfectly safe? What would it look like if you could approach dying with curiosity and love? What if dying were the ultimate spiritual practice?" Ram Dass