1985 New York City
The thing about a final conversation is you often don’t know at the time that it is, in fact, the last one. And this conversation, which took place on May 20, 2017 (two months after my mother died) was no different. I did not know it would be the last sustained conversation I would ever have with my father. He lived another two years and we did have countless short exchanges during that time, about what he was eating or the weather or how he was feeling. Occasionally he would talk briefly about some incident from his youth or express how much he missed my mother, but they were short bursts before lapsing back into a vacant stare or sleep.
This conversation was different, different enough that I went right home that day and wrote it down, and I can only imagine how much cognitive energy it took him. He had been struggling with progressive dementia for some time. What’s hard to convey here is not so much what he said but how hard he listened, which was very rare by that point. I also wrote it down because it was about death, which was clearly on his mind that day and, now that he has been gone a few months, is still on mine.
Dad: Do you ever wonder what happened to people?
Me: Who do you mean, Dad?
Dad: Well, like Dick Baer. Where is he? Why haven’t I heard from him?
(Note: Dick was one of his best friends.)
Me: Dad, Dick died in 2008.
Dad: What????
Me: Yes, he died of a heart attack nine years ago.
Dad: I don’t remember. Other people, I know they have died. But not Dick. Strange. How did he go? Did he die in a hospital?
Me: I am pretty sure he had a heart attack and then spent three or four weeks in a hospital and then, yes, he died.
Dad: Do you ever worry?
Me: Worry about what?
Dad: Well, anything. Everything.
Me: Sure.
Dad: I worry a lot.
Me: What do you worry about?
Dad: I worry about what happened to whats-her-name.
Me: Mom? (off his blank expression) My mom, Jill, your wife?
He nods.
Dad: I worry about her dying.
Me: Do you worry if she is ok? I mean, ok, now?
Dad: I just don’t understand how she died and I don’t remember her dying. Did I go to the funeral?
Me: We didn’t have a funeral, we just had a small gathering here, a tea, about a week after she died. (I name many of the people who came) Chris (my brother) gave a really nice speech. I am sorry you don’t remember.
Dad: How do you handle your worry? What do you do when you worry?
Me: It used to make me so anxious. I try now not to worry, I try and say to myself, well, there’s nothing I can do about that right now, so there is no point in worrying.
Dad: That’s very philosophical of you.
Me: Do you miss mom?
He nods.
Me: Do you ever talk to her, not necessarily out loud, but just, well, out loud or in your head?
Dad: There would be no point, I don’t believe in any of that.
Me: So you just think she’s gone, that’s it.
He nods.
Me: I used to feel that way, but now I am not so sure. (He looks at me with interest.) I don’t necessarily believe in ghosts or spirits, but, well, I came across something interesting, something someone said about grief. (He leans in listening closer.) They said that grief was love with no place to go. And that made sense to me. I was feeling so blocked up and numb, so I just decided that I would continue to love her. Not just the memory of her, but her. So I just keep on loving her, and it feels better. I think that maybe I am just sending that energy to her, that love energy, and maybe somewhere she feels it.
At this point I notice my father is tearing up. He nods.
Me: Does that make sense, Dad?
Dad: Yes. Yes it does.
