Losing a parent is something you can’t prepare yourself for.

Kirby Tousey
Sep 1, 2018 · 6 min read

How do you keep your faith and allow yourself to let go?

I learned from my father. By watching him die. It wasn’t a choice or something I could ignore. I literally watched cancer eat the flesh off his face. I watched, over a span of 8 months, his body become cancer frail and helpless. I listened to him describe in detail his pain and side effects from the chemotherapy and radiation. He could literally feel the cancer growing in his face and would point to it each day and tell me how much it hurt.

During these horrible 8 months, I drove from Wisconsin to Ohio constantly to be with him. During my long drives I would sob and beg for this to end. I realized how selfish we are as humans when someone is slowly dying. How we would tell him to keep fighting and hang on longer. Long enough to make it one more Christmas or Birthday. I was terrified to make plans with anyone. I put all travel and vacation out of mind during these 8 months. Being 7 hours away from my dad was hard enough. I would lie awake at night, thinking “what if this is the week he gets worse?”

For me, going to work every day was hell. I hated being around negative, unhappy people who complained about the smallest, most pointless things. I hated giving updates to co-workers about my dad’s condition. No matter what people said to me during those times, no one will truly understand the complete emptiness I felt watching my dad — my hero — be taken away from me prematurely. When your parent is dying, a piece of you dies along with them. That piece can never be replaced.

During the last 4 months, helping care for my dad was such a rollercoaster of emotions. I tried so hard to stay positive and hopeful. But part of me couldn’t help being a realist. My dad had an extremely aggressive skin cancer, which led to a very intense 15 hour surgery to remove the entire left side of his face.

Yes, you read that right.

Cancer is silent, and most of the time eating away at your insides. But not this time. This time it was a face I had memorized for 37 years. Think back to a time when your dad had facial hair and then one day he shaves it. Remember that feeling. Now multiply that feeling by your very worst, haunting nightmare. Then multiply that feeling by having to watch your first love die a horrific painful slow death.

Now here’s where I have to learn to forgive myself for being so selfish. Selfish because I was begging for him to stay strong and keep fighting. Because I didn’t want my children to feel the stress and heartbreak of witnessing their first traumatic death. Selfish for trying to plan every moment around him dying.

As my dad’s life got closer to coming to an end, I learned to allow myself to finally be in the moment. I started to make the best of it. I would let my mind be where his mind was. When he would hallucinate I would go on that journey with him. Even though I wasn’t able to see what he was seeing it was so important to me that he wasn’t alone during his hallucinations. There were lots of moments where we would have hard belly laughs. Sometimes I didn’t even know what we were laughing about, but if felt good to share that laughter with him.

He thanked me over and over again for making him feel comfortable. I took great pride in taking care of my father. Rubbing lotion on his shoulders and back, now literally skin and bones. Setting up his feedings for the day. Administering his pain medication. Fixing him a cup of coffee. He was never really able to drink the coffee without it spilling down his chin. Making sure he could still enjoy holding a warm cup of coffee in his hands meant a great deal to me.

Being 7 hours away was hard for me. I wanted to be there more. He was happiest when I was next to him. My biggest regret during the last two months was that I was so stressed about my job. Of course, my energy was drained. My creative spark was just a flicker. My manager and creative director pushed self doubt on me because my head was not in the game for them. My head, my heart, my everything was with my dad. If I could go back in time I would have taken a leave of absence. I regret not doing that. The work was always there. But my dad, his days were numbered.

The very last week of my dad’s life, I had the feeling I needed to be there with him. I didn’t know at the time that it would be the last week of his life. I’m so thankful for the intuition that told me to go. That last week with him is one that I will hold on to for the rest of my days.

I had buried my dad over and over again in my mind before he had actually died. Maybe I was trying to prepare myself? But like I said, there is no way to really prepare yourself for losing a parent.

I had the opportunity to talk to him about dying. It wasn’t easy. It would get way too emotional every time. Most of the time we didn’t need to talk. I could look him in the eye and see his worry and sadnesses. But during that last week, it was different. I watched him turn childlike and become so innocent. I watched him die and come back. He was fighting death, and I sat on the couch watching him in his recliner cross over to the other side.

He would spring up out of his chair and gasp for air. I would say with great concern “dad are you okay?” The look on his face told me he had been somewhere else. He was on the other side. He was fighting back and forth, and I just sat and watched it. I prayed that day. Sitting there on the couch. I prayed that God would take him. That he could rest and stop fighting. That was the last day I got to say goodbye to him. I made dinner plans with a close friend, knowing that I needed to recharge my batteries if I was going to be there for my dad.

Unfortunately, that was the last time I physically saw him responsive. Maybe it was better that way? Because I actually got to say goodbye? I don’t know. I’d give anything to still be there with him. But then again that’s selfish. He needed to be done. He deserved to be done.

I’ve learned so much from my fathers death. I’ve learned to be thankful, not just for the kind acts I encounter, but to truly be thankful for waking up with air in my lungs. I’ve learned not to sweat the small things, and not let them control my happiness. Watching my dad go through tremendous pain, yet still have joy and happiness, really put my life into perspective.

It’s been almost 6 months now since he’s been gone. I’m still processing and learning new things about myself. I’ve written him several letters. I’ve had numerous visits and signs from my father. I’ve cried pretty much every day.

After all the hurt and pain, I’m still able to find happiness. I smile when I see my dad’s characteristics in one of my brothers. I surround myself with photographs of him before cancer. I listen to the many video recordings I have of him talking to me. I write songs over and over about him. I keep the good stuff alive in my heart and mind.

His fight lasted 8 months. For those 8 months I just wanted it to be over. But once it ended, it meant he was physically gone. That’s not what I wanted. That’s not what I meant when I prayed and begged. I wanted the cancer to end. Not my father. Not his life. Just the cancer.

I can still hear his voice when I stare at his photographs. I hope that never fades away. I hope to receive more messages and signs from him. I hope as time goes on I continue to learn and accept his death. I’m so thankful for the time I had with him. I never imagined this would be the end of my dad’s life. I’m glad I took the time to be cuddled next to his side during his remaining hours. I laid my head near his chest and listened to his heart beat. I held his hand for hours and hours. I played his guitar and sang to him. I prayed over him and I thanked him. I thanked him for everything and told him I hope to see him again some day.

Kirby Tousey

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