A Poingnant Farewell

Today marks the sixth anniversary of the day my father journeyed on from this realm of life, and it has left me reflecting on the moments before he was gone and the strange poignancy I felt in saying goodbye to him.

What I remember from those last moments were raspy, deep, death-approaching breaths coming from the corner of the room where he laid alone on a hospital bed.  There were no flowers in vases strewn about, no cards propped up on side tables, and no one sitting by my father’s side touching his dying body.  He was alone.   We were there, my siblings and me, but we were not there - simply staying in a world that was ours, passing time while we listened, quietly hoping his labored breathing would stop.

This disconnected vigil felt strange, but not surprising given how aloof and detached my father had been for the majority of my life. 

For some background, I grew up with a dad who, unbeknownst to me during the tender, early years of my life, was a full-blown, off-the-charts, top-of-his-game narcissist.  What did this mean to me in those young years?  It meant I loved him with every cell in my body.   It meant I spent countless years trying to please him, thousands of days attempting to gain his attention, and too many hours to count seeking his love.

It was as if I had created a game of ‘cat and mouse’ – me the constant pursuer, sometimes feeling as if I had almost captured my prey, and him repeatedly finding ways to make the great escape.  All I seemed to catch over those years was heartache, pain, and a growing belief that I wasn’t enough for this elusive mouse in the form of my father.

This pastime of seeking love and experiencing inevitable disappointment didn’t stop until I was well into my forties – a time when I was digging into and healing many of the childhood wounds that had held me captive for years.   In the process of this work, it became clear to me that I couldn’t be the doting daughter my father needed, and he couldn’t be the loving dad I had longed for.  In this internal reconciliation, my active relationship with my dad came to a close. 

Fast forward almost twenty years, and I found myself arriving at his hospice bed after receiving the call from my siblings that he had slipped into unconsciousness and was about to journey on.  After nearly two decades of silence between us and endless work on healing the father-wound within me, I was finally free enough to feel love toward the wounded human he was, experience tenderness in his presence, and bid him a loving and poignant farewell.