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Holding Dad’s Hands
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Friday May 3, 2019
I’m driving fast (at least it’s fast to me,)
The nurse’s call gives reason for my haste.
She says that dad has fever and it seems
His time remaining is in hours or days.
The sky is sunny and the road is clear.
I pray that dad will hold to life until
I make vast miles between us disappear.
Arriving at the rest home where he will
Quite soon pass on from Alzheimer’s and age,
I rush to find him in his room to give
Him affirmation of my love. Proclaims
The nurse, “To see you he has willed to live.”
I take his hand, he rises up in bed,
Three God-bless-yous he with a firmness said.
Dad’s final benediction gives me shock
He has not known my name for many years.
It’s been so long since he could clearly talk.
Our long relationship knew many tears.
I’m here to see him this last time because
Until the end, to honor him is right.
I did not come expecting dad’s applause—
Amazing grace—all wrongs have left his sight.
And now for days we siblings, with concern,
In turn stay with him lest he die alone
He’ll feel our love till he to dust returns—
A tiny token. We cannot atone
For all he’s done for us. Kind Time does mend.
Not one of us gives up here near the end.
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Sunday May 5, 2019
I walk into a church I’ve never seen
Before and head off to the ladies room
Where at the sink I brush my teeth. It seems
The girls and women in the line assume
That I am homeless. Maybe wrinkled clothes
Give me that look. But truth be told I slept
Last night upon a chair. They don’t suppose
My ailing father’s dying so I kept
A vigil by his bedside. Now it’s my
Dear sister’s turn to hold his hand. I’m here
To balm my soul with worship and remind
Myself that soon my dad will There appear—
In the heavens around the throne with praise—
Perhaps he will when comes the next Lord’s Day.
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In the Wee Hours of Monday, May 6, 2019
His hand led me to bed when I was young,
It held my bike when he taught me to ride.
In crowds to his strong guiding hand I clung.
He held the wheel when he taught me to drive,
And on my wedding day he raised my veil
With both his hands to give me one last kiss.
The hands I’m holding now are very frail,
Translucent, soft, and ghostlike their skin is.
I listen to his shallow breathing wane,
I hold his hands as tightly as I dare,
And watch his chest rise up still not in vain.
And promise him that I will see him There,
“Dad, it’s okay for you to leave, you know.”
He does and so his hands I too let go.
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Gigi Ryan is a wife, mother, grandmother, and home educator. She lives in rural Tennessee.
Splendid memories
I wasn’t able to do that for mine, but you made it seem that I was there when the angels sang until we meet again!
Dear Wayne,
Thank you for your comment. It means a lot to me that I was able to communicate in a way that made you feel that you were present.
Gigi
A lot of sad but positive emotion’s carried in this poem.
Thanks for the read, Gigi.
Dear Paul,
Yes – this side of heaven it is a mix. My Dad had 91 years – 52 of them I shared with him – a lifetime of ups and downs. I am blessed that our story had a redemptive ending.
Gigi
Gigi, you have managed to capture that unbreakable bond between father and daughter that transcends the earthly rigors of this world with your heartfelt words. I especially like the memories of “Dad’s Hands” recalled in the last sonnet, together with the poignant letting go in the closing couplet. I am certain your poems will resonate with many. Thank you!
Dear Susan,
Thank you for commenting. I am glad you liked the last couplet. It was great privilege to be there at his passing and it is a privilege to share the momentous event with others.
Gigi
Wonderful sequence of poems–about a relity.
Dear Phil,
Thank you, Phil. Poetry has been a container for my “realities” in recent years.
Gigi
Interesting that your father recognized you before he passed. My father also had Alzheimer’s and on visiting him the night he passed, age 90, he recognized me, commanding; “Get me to h— out of here.” He was in a nursing home. A couple hours later he was gone. Your poem brings back a lot of thoughts and memories.
Dear Phil,
It is interesting how Alzheimer’s patients sometimes have some moments of lucidity at the end. It is also surprising the strength of your father’s comment when he had so little life left. Thank you for sharing your experiences.
Gigi
This is a beautiful tribute to the love you felt for your father, the toughness of enduring this final challenge with him, and a wonderful, understated expression of grief. How vividly you remind me of the loss of my dear father back in 1997. Everything you write is just so honest and observant. You could have been excused for not rhyming at all in such a piece/ Blank verse would have worked. But you do rhyme and, although it could have seemed overcontrolled in such a situation, your rhyming works — largely because you are not obsessive about finding perfect rhymes (haste/days, e.g.) but, rather, relax into letting the language carry you. It’s the right choice. I will long remember the simplicity and profundity of your line “promise him that I will see him There,”
Dear Brian,
Thank you for commenting. So many of us have had similar experiences. How could we not? Death weaves through our lives inevitably. Being with him in the end felt akin to a marathon without an end in sight. But that made it all the more victorious to be with him as he crossed the bar. “You made it, Dad!”
I appreciate your thoughts about my imperfect rhymes. Sometimes I prefer that lest the endings of my lines seem forced.
Gigi
These are three very moving poems. I particularly like that your father blessed you at the end. Thinking of others to the very end. He must have been a very special person indeed.
Dear Maria,
He definitely was a very special person. Thank you for noticing his thoughtfulness in this poem.
Gigi
Thank you for sharing this beautiful tribute through your intimate last moments together… what a great blessing to be a part of this!
Dear Peg,
Thank you for being willing to enter in. That is a blessing to me!
Gigi
Gigi, this is such a precious poem of sharing loving memories and the bond you had with your father. This touches my heart and soul. You were blessed with his final words that somehow found clarity by the grace of God after suffering from such an affliction. Your words at the end gave him that sweet release from life knowing he had raised you well and would soon see you again. Bless you.
Dear Roy,
Thank you for taking time to share your thoughts. He had such a long life, yet I still miss him every day. Writing about my story and sharing my memories give a place for grief. Bless you.
Gigi
The death of a parent is always psychologically devastating. My father died at the age of 95, suddenly and quickly, and I was not with him at that time. My mother died after a long and protracted illness at the age of 103, with her sons around her, very much as you describe in your poems.
In both cases the deaths changed me. It was the poet Leo Yankevich who put his finger precisely on the reason for this, when he said to me “The death of a parent is like the death of God.”
Dear Joseph,
Death does change us forever, I believe. Yes, even when they are old. I had not heard the Leo Yankevich’s quote and at first it took me aback. But our parents are our first understanding of God – someone who cares for us, protects us, and is wiser than we are.
Gigi
Gigi, with your clear and beautiful composition, you have taken me with you to your father’s last days.
Dear Mary,
Thank you for being willing to come along.
Gigi
Gigi, the slight rhymes perform a rhetorical function: the soften the prosody and are softly evocative of the love of your father. We poets write in closed spaces, in public with dark glasses and wide brimmed hats. We do this because we love. Mine passed at 61, and I said cruel and despicable things to him at our business the night before his seizure. I am in Purgatorio and take every opportunity to teach my students (as we taught our children and grandchildren) to express gratitude and love, here and now, Praise their lives in ours unceasingly, as St Francis de Assisi instructed his Brothers to preach the Good News without end. Thank you for the cathartic and beautiful lines.
Jonathan Kinsman
Dear Jonathan,
I am sorry you must live with devastating memories of your last time with your father. It certainly has changed you forever and now you try to protect others from the same experience by encouraging a spirit of love and gratitude at all times. You are making beauty from ashes.
I love your line about how “we poets write in closed spaces, in public with dark glasses and wide brimmed hats.”
Thank you for taking time to read and comment on my poem.
Gigi
I was rendered speechless after reading these. The pain behind your words, dear Gigi, cannot be described. Losing one’s parents is the most grievous thing; it leaves a void that nothing can fill. I appreciate your willingness to share your sentiments through these well-crafted pieces with us. God bless you now and always. Keep well.
Dear Shamik,
Sometimes a reader of poetry comes along side the poet as Job’s friends did in the beginning when came to grieve quietly with their friend.
It takes some sacrifice to be willing to suffer alongside a writer and you have done that. I thank you. God bless you.
Gigi
Gigi, thanks for these fine poems. They say so much about the parent-child bond and also about the wider issue of loss.
Dear David,
Thank you for writing. The parent-child bond and loss are certainly two themes we cannot exhaust. I find a lot to write about both.
Gigi