Live In Love, Rest In Peace.
ServiceSpace
--Leah Pearlman
4 minute read
Jul 24, 2012

 

There's a way in which i could describe the last two month of my life as the hardest I've ever been through.I can't describe the pain of watching my dad, the man i love most in the world grow weaker every day, suffer the pain of not being able to breathe, the fear of not being able to find anyone to give him guarantees or answers, and start to wonder if he'll have to leave this life he loves so much -- because he, more than anyone 

i've ever met was totally in love with his life. His job, his family, his friends, his daily baths, his guitar, his music, his church, his tv shows, his blackberry, his nurses, his librarians, his snacks, his own jokes...he was a person who never needed any more than exactly what he had, and the idea of having to give up that kind of perfection terrified him. From the day he was diagnosed with lung cancer nine years ago, he fought with everything had.

He retired on May 31st when he could no longer leave the house. By the first week of june he could no longer walk down the stairs, and entered hospice care. It was about that time he stopped eating. Until the end, my mother, brother and i were with him in shifts, around the clock, holding his hands, stroking his forehead, wishing him well on the next phase of his journey and promising him we'd mourn and suffer tremendously, but that we'd be ok. Oh my, watching my mom with him in the last month was just the most tender thing i could possibly imagine. She never left his side for anything other than to take a moment to cry or be held by a friend. Otherwise she lay beside him for hours and hours just whispering her love and acceptance in his ear.

On June 18th, we all slept together in the living room, knowing the end was close. My mom in the bed beside him, my brother and i each on a couch. At about 1:20am, the nurse watching over him, wiping his brow, and wetting his lips with ice cubs, gently woke us all up, to tell us the end was near. we gathered around his bed and each held him, my brother stroking his forehead, my mom in his ear, and i held his had. We watched as his breathing, sweet and full, unlike is has been for the last year since the lymphoma infected his lung, slowed, and finally, stopped. "He's gone." The nurse said, and switched of the oxygen that had been his life line. It was so quiet, except for the sound of my soft crying. Tears streamed down my mother and brother's face, but they too were quiet and still. The sobbing had come before, and will keep coming again. But that moment, it was sacred. Later that morning, after the mortuary had taken him away, my brother and i took a walk to a lake to watch the sunrise and feel the pain in our hearts spread out over the horizon. My mother slept, as she has barely been able to do in months.


As I said, there's a way in which I could describe this summer of my life as the hardest i've ever been through. But it wasn't. Almost the reverse. I have spent the last two months held, caressed, supported, and nourished by the most abundant, dedicated, outpouring of love and support. I have felt wrap up in love's arms so tightly that there has been nowhere for me to go but between greif and gratitude. Many members of this community which i have just known over a year, have been as present in this passing as people i've known my whole life. Recently, Scott and Jo phoenix came out to visit me in Colorado, where i'm staying for the summer to be near my mom. Ever morning of their visit, i awoke to a new gift of love from someone in the Service Space community. By the time they left i had a veritable alter of support.
It's strange, sometimes my mind wants to tell me I'm nothing without unconditional love and faith my dad had for me. His affirmation and camaraderie has been such a source of strength for me my entire life. But then i look at this group and realize there is more love in this world than i could ever know what to do with. And I'm looking forward to the future with a renewed sense of purpose: to care for others as you all have cared for me, and to treat everyone who crosses my path with the same kind of attention, affection, and humor as my dad has always done for anyone he ever met.
 

 

Posted by Leah Pearlman on Jul 24, 2012


14 Past Reflections