Holding grief in our hips

and other important things to note

Over the last two months, as I stayed with my Dad as he was dying, I began to struggle with walking. At first, I thought the pain in my hip joints was sympathy pain as I watched my Dad struggle to stand with the support of several nurses. Only a few weeks earlier, he was biking six miles and going to the gym several times a week. Now he was bed-ridden, unable to get out of bed on his own even to sit in a chair by his hospital bed.

Somebody recently told me that women hold grief in their hips. I am sure it is true as I struggle to stand out of a chair, to swing my legs in step, to move forward.

The pain in my hips reminded me of the seven months postpartum when I couldn’t rise out of a chair with my baby girl in my arms because I needed both hands to push myself up into a standing position. And then I needed time to shuffle step until my hips warmed up. Then I could bend over and pick up my daughter to carry her.

When my Dad was taking his last breaths, I went into Warrior Pose and held it, feeling the searing pain in my hips but holding as long as I could because it was all I could do.

I have never felt so helpless, so incapable of making something work. I am a “get things done” kind of person. I find solutions. I figure things out. And yet as I watched my Dad’s rapid decline, there was nothing I could do to make things right so I searched for things I could do that were important.

Important: When a new nurse or doctor stepped into my Dad’s room — and there was a revolving door of them staring through him and past him each day — I held up my iPhone to show each one a recent photograph of my Dad so they could see the man he was before he stepped into their hospital. I recited the facts that he biked six miles and went to the gym several times a week and was an algebra instructor for the University of Phoenix online because it was important that they knew he was not some old, infirm man who was not worth consideration. The lack of compassion for my Dad — or any of us with him for that matter — floored me. But showing his photograph to them would sometimes register a flicker across their eyes that almost seemed like understanding, as if for an instant they saw the devastatingly fast “before and after” of my Dad’s condition.

Important: I helped Dad keep a routine that seemed to bring him a semblance of comfort: brought him his toothbrush, toothpaste and a small plastic basin so he could brush his teeth. Then I would pour a little plastic cup of Biotin rinse for relief from his constantly dry mouth. Then I’d prep a hot washcloth so he could wipe his face and hands, followed by a few squirts of hand sanitizer. Sometimes, I rubbed his feet. Small comforts.

Important: When we were at the second hospital, I was able to get permission to wheel him outside. When I asked for a wheelchair and nobody seemed to have time to bring it to us, I spotted one in the hospital hallway, grabbed it, and wheeled it to his room, helping him into it. We all sat outside in the hospital courtyard with the sun in our faces. He smiled.

Important: As he was dying, he thought Thai food from his favorite restaurant nearby sounded good. So I called them, and they agreed to deliver Pad Thai to the hospital. I was able to give him one forkful despite the oxygen mask on his face. We had just started perfecting a technique where I’d tip the mask with my left hand, and he could slide a fork of rice noodles through the crack and put the food into his mouth. Then I’d replace the oxygen mask to his face. Even though he grimaced and choked then told me through labored breaths that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all, he knew I had gotten it for him. I got it done.

My hips still hurt, deep in their sockets, some moments worse than others.

I can’t easily rise from a sitting position. It takes me a few minutes of walking painfully before I can move my hips to take normal steps. My hips hurt when I lay on my left side. My hips hurt when I lay on my right side. It must be this enormous, overwhelming, unbearable weight of grief that I still carry in my hips.