Walking Pops Home
There are times we move through that stay etched in our hearts forever, and we are somehow forever changed by them. The final year with my father is ripe with such moments.
I was accompanying my Pops to his cardiology appointment. He was slowly dying, fading from a broken heart. We both were still quite raw, as my mama had died the year before.
My Pops, a formidable presence at 6 ft 2, Irish and stoic, would somehow begin to resemble a young child. As we made our way into the lobby I was overcome with the ache of seeing him so brave and vulnerable at once. Something about watching this big tough man move so slowly, aided by a walker, looking a bit disheveled, made me want to shelter him. From what, I do not know. But the daughter in me was feeling quite protective of him.
This stubborn and difficult patriarch was shrinking. This man, always dressed so sharply and standing so tall, was now unable to walk unassisted. He was very bothered by his physical demise, as he was someone who was fiercely independent and liked being the strong presence. Being vulnerable was nearly impossible for him, which was interesting as he was a sensitive guy deeper down.
I spent a lot of time holding my Pops hands that last year. More than the usual affection, which was a lot! We always hugged each other, always said I love you aloud. I came to appreciate the ways my Pops and I always had a closeness, despite any disagreements. It was as if we both agreed to keep showing up and trying, as exhausting and hard as it could be.
His hands were big and callused for most of his life, as he was a tin knocker. Yet these past few years found his palms and knuckles softening up. He was starting to soften too, and when my Mama was gone that was too much for him to handle.
Now as he grew sicker, I marveled at how he could still be so physically strong at times, and resemble a helpless child when he let that guard down. Such a paradox he was. Once I even recall the paramedics that could not believe how someone with such dangerously low oxygen levels, someone who was starting to turn gray was able to stand himself up when they said it was time to leave for the hospital. They meant they’d bring in a stretcher and help him, he thought he had to go get his shoes and help himself. Now these past few weeks his heart was only functioning at less than thirty percent. Yet he was still a force.
I spent a lot of time sitting next to him, just holding his hands. Whenever he would nod off and then reawaken he’d squeeze my hand.
“Squeeze my hand tighter Tracy darling.’’
We would both laugh. Recalling the game we always played years ago. “Squeeze and release, who was stronger?’’ He would never use all his strength on me, and would encourage me to not give up so soon.
“Come on now, squeeze me hand!”
I was afraid I may hurt him now. He was slowly but surely getting closer to making his transition, and I was hesitating, was afraid that I may squeeze too hard. I slowly and oh so carefully squeezed tighter.
Bam! Full grip he tightened on me. “Ouch Pops!”
Surprised at the strength he was able to muster, we both started laughing.
He gave me a wink.
“I still got it, right?’’
Wise ass. He was dying and he was still a great wise ass. I was now quite proud to be this old troublemaker’s daughter.
“Yes Pops you sure do, you still got it!”
“Remember your father never lost his strength, not even at the end.’’
“Yup”…choking back tears and my eyes start to burn,
“I know you are strong Pops.”
‘’You are even stronger Tracy darling. Don’t you ever forget that.’’
Grief has a way of breaking through the fortresses we humans try to hide behind. Those walls we so fervently put up to keep us protected are no match for the tidal waves of grief. But oh when we reach the calmer waters that wash over us, we are forever changed. Our broken hearts grow flowers when our ache becomes the fertile lands within.
The grief I felt as a small child, when my baby brother died was overshadowed. It was pushed aside by the fears and trepidation that was planted when I saw my Pops collapse, ever so briefly yet oh so fully, into his own grief. This was too much for him to handle, so he spent many years running from his hurt, drowning his tender heart in the bottle.
the summer sky seemed welcoming blankets in the sky orange and violet threads gaze upon what left us as if the longing would bring him back when someone die, what remains? when endings become beginnings do we ever forgive ourselves? the ardent cries of crows became the sounds of my ache mourning what was I am both absorbed and removed by the layers of life sweeping over me when I saw the bravest being collapse and crumble the earth trembled in suffocating remorse in this moment I could begin to see iron fists have alabaster hearts
I so appreciate you reading this. If it moved you in some way I hope you may decide to follow me, and consider supporting my work on Substack. I will occasionally offer the complete posts to all followers, yet for a small monthly fee, you will get the full posts always. In the future there will also be recordings and other offerings. Founding members will also get two intuitive readings annually as my way of saying thanks.
In whatever way you chose to be here, I thank you from my heart.
with love xo,
Tracy
“When endings become beginnings do we ever forgive ourselves.” Wow! This touched me deeply. It has taken me quite some time to understand my guilt for having been the one that survived. My guilt for having been able to see Ty grow. My guilt for beginning a new life that I love. Do we ever forgive ourselves? I’m learning how, slowly. Thank you for your words.❤️
"Grief has a way of breaking through the fortresses we humans try to hide behind. " This got to me. Beautiful. Thank you!