I had the pleasure of spending a leg of my European trip with this week’s guest poster, Steph Wolfenden. Her story is one of bravery and love, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. - Kelly
After debating between Brussels, and Amsterdam, we settled on a week in Barcelona.
One month earlier during a brisk hike, Kelly and I chatted about Jason, life, love, and travel. She tossed out the idea of spending a month in Europe. Not only did I encourage it, I insisted on crashing a week of it. After all, I’d never taken the opportunity to travel out of the country. If not now, when else would I get the chance to spend a week with my closest and oldest friend in Europe.
Once the logistics were settled, I began doing my research. Checking the forecasted weather, planning my wardrobe, making packing lists, asking friends and coworkers for tips and the must-see spots.
A few days before leaving, I received a text message from my stepmother that my dad had stopped eating and his organs were shutting down, and that I should make plans to see him soon.
My dad was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s eight years earlier, when I was four months pregnant with my first child. Six years and two brain surgeries stemming from a fall sped up his decline. My dad, now stuck inside his head, couldn’t communicate, walk, or remember us. The man who taught me how to talk ad nauseam about anything and everything couldn’t formulate a simple sentence to express his wants and needs.
My kids would never experience my dad’s quirky personality. His passion for baseball, music, and food. His drumming on anything and everything when the mood struck. His ability to spot tiny warblers out on the wildlife reservation at plum island. His NEED to know the answer to something so random, he would run to his encyclopedia set. I often think he would have loved having google on his phone. They were too little to remember anything more than my dad, a virtual stranger, gazing down at his lap or napping.
I didn’t know what to do. He’d had multiple moments over the years where we didn’t think he’d survive the night, week, etc. There’s no definite timeline, no guarantee. What I believed, and knew, is that he didn’t want to live the way he had been. Yes he’d received excellent care, in the comfort of home, but how much of my dad was the dad I remembered: the man that would read newspaper headlines to me on the back deck, tell me my nail polish chipped (still is!), or share an omelet while watching SNL on Saturday nights at grandmas, just because we were snacky.
I hadn’t sat by his side on a daily or weekly basis. My commute into work, distance between our homes, being a mom; it really didn’t lend for a ton of time to pop by. And I had no desire to watch him take his last breaths. I wouldn't have done that even if this trip wasn’t a factor. Didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt, didn’t mean it wouldn’t feel like losing my dad twice; once when his mind left, and again when his body finally gave up.
I expected to be judged. How could I not sit vigil by my dad’s bedside in his last moments? Everyone gave their opinion. Some were against it, but my mom, Kelly, my friends; they all encouraged me to go. Postponing wasn’t an option, as Kelly was moving on to Scotland shortly after my flight home from Barcelona. And really, those who knew him were confident he wouldn’t want me to cancel and miss this opportunity.
I kissed my dad’s head and said a quiet goodbye and left for Barcelona the next day, uncertain about how the two of us, experiencing different levels of real grief, would enjoy this trip. But we found a way. We cried, laughed, drank cava, ate countless plates of cheese and jamon, got into secret bars, toured (and cried inside) churches, checked out the gothic quarter, shopped, helped a family that had their cell phone stolen, made friends at Diego’s bar, siesta’d, laughed at the construction outside the elevator shaft/closet in Kelly’s bedroom; struggled with the language (me) and with the skeleton key to our Airbnb (also me). We made countless memories; unlike anything we could have back home.
I found my dad all over the city, from the street band we stumbled upon to the giant owl sculpture perched on top of a building we walked by. I didn’t come to some grand realization, some meaningful breakthrough, but we set out for what we wanted to do. Letting go of the judgement and criticism I placed on myself, I gave myself the opportunity to experience something other than grief. In that way, my dad was with me the whole time.
Owl of Barcleona; Retols Roura Building
I wasn’t there when my dad passed away in the middle of the night, only two days after I returned home from Spain. My mom thinks he waited for me.
I just think it was his time.
