should I leave now?

Mom sat at the dining room table, devouring the buttered toast I made her.

“He’s gone, right?” she asked mid-munch without looking up.

“Yes,” I hesitated for a moment and nodded. “He’s gone.”

My dad, her husband of 67 years, had just died in the next room.

She stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea, dipped her toast in. “Okay.”

“I mean, he’s still here, Mom…but he’s dead. Is that what you meant?”

She didn’t respond. Fortunately for me at that moment Mom and her dementia were distracted by her breakfast. Raisin bread’s her favorite and she hadn’t eaten much since yesterday. I had coffee and calls to make but wanted to get her settled a bit before getting my head around the day ahead of me.

Last night Dad kept us on our toes: fluffing his pillows, changing TV channels, shaving his face, feeding him…it was like he thought if he kept giving us more and more to do and never let us sit down, he wouldn’t die.

“Who’s here?” she asked next.

“Just you and me.” For now anyway, the hospice nurse had just left.

“Where’s Blue?” Mom peeked under the table.

“In there,” I pointed. “She’s still with him.”

Dad’s dog Blue was shivering next to his bed in the living room. She’d been part of last night’s hospice brigade but freaked out this morning when the choking started, the death rattle, and wildly paced the living room toward the end. When the hospice nurse got the morphine in him and his breathing stopped, Blue froze up, then her shaking started. I can deal with grieving humans, grieving animals are a different story. I wrapped her in a blanket and left her there for now, I wasn’t sure what else to do. She needed time to process this loss and I was in no shape to peel a 70 pound pitbull off the floor.

On my phone I googled:

-What to do for a dog when owner dies

-Dog trauma when owner dies

-Dog shivering next to dead owner

Their Rolodex was already right there on the table so I flipped through the cards and found:

DOCTOR MILDER/BLUE VET in Dad’s shaky writing.

I pulled the card out and stared at it.

If this was just your average things-to-do-when-your-dad-dies situation I wouldn’t hesitate.I’d be working the phone calling friends, making funeral arrangements, going through boxes of Kleenex. But this was different. How was any of this going to work? The shaking dog. My decomposing father. What to do with Mom. My dad just died a few minutes ago and I didn’t know how or when or if to start anything.

I had only just learned that Dad had recently changed their will, replacing me with a man from their Fundamentalist Christian church, making him executor and beneficiary. He was now in charge of everything including my Mom and Blue. His name was now on all their accounts and medical records. He had his own keys to my parents house, keys to everything my parents owned.

It suddenly occurred to me that Dad may have wanted him (and his wife) here last night instead of me. His church family. The family he preferred and a life I was not part of. I suddenly felt like an imposter in the very house I grew up in. I felt nervous and out of place at the dining room table where we’d had all our meals and birthday parties and Thanksgivings. Should I even be here at all?

Mom sat across from me, quietly flipping through one of the photo albums we’d taken out, pointing at people, trying to remember who they were.

“Alexa: Play Heroic Polonaise by Frederick Chopin,” I requested. As the music started an unexpected childhood memory washed over me. Me at nine or ten, in this room setting the table for dinner while Mom played Heroic so elegantly and forte on her piano. Dad right here in the kitchen, happily cooking us one of his impressive gourmet meals, paella or something. Long before their church days. Chopin was always her favorite. I didn’t know if anyone was going to know what her favorites were anymore.

If my brother were still alive this never would have happened. When he died our family broke and we never recovered. We never spoke of him again. A couple times I tried and they stopped me. Mom buried it and that’s when her brain broke. I’ve been this outsider, a reminder of their old life. Someone they used to know from a family they used to be part of, I would navigate carefully just to have people I could call parents.

Last night was something of a miracle (if I actually believed in those). I’d been feeling so betrayed, so abandoned. I powered through using a little mental trick, asking myself: “What would Future Stephanie want?” I knew if I could just get us all through the night and set my feelings aside, I could live with myself later. Future Stephanie kept pushing me forward saying “You got this. Do it for your brother.” Even though I was in pain, I knew Dad was in a lot more. Even though it was probably his last night, I knew I would go on living. I wanted his last hours to be peaceful. They were.

Chopin continued playing and Mom hummed along. She knew it all by heart, just tucked up in her brain somewhere.

“Now what will we do?” Mom asked. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about right then or in the future. Either way I had no idea.

“Will you stay here with me?” she wanted to know.

“Sure Mom.” I told her. Even though I wasn’t sure I could keep that promise.

it got worse from there

Growing up my parents had groovy clothes, cool friends and progressive politics. When Dad’s drinking became too much, just like that they became born-again Christians. Seems like overnight they had not-so groovy clothes, all different friends and a new political party. Their midlife change was a big adjustment but I was happy they found peace. I was 16 and nearly out of the house anyway.

Their new-found faith and ultra-conservative Ronald Reagan-style politics were a package deal. Over the years I was respectful of their views but didn’t share them. We always managed to get through the holidays and other family gatherings talking about safe subjects to avoid conflict. We made it through the 80’s, through Clinton, second Bush, even through Obama. They’d invite me to their Pro-Life functions, I didn’t advertise I was out there marching for Choice. I was determined not to let our opposing political views get between us, especially once the grandkids were born. Family first.

When Trump came along that all changed.

Dad was all in: Red hat, t-shirt, bumper stickers, coffee mug, all the MAGA merch. Fox News on a loop. Suddenly my inbox was flooded daily with forwards from Dad: right-wing propaganda, divisive articles, offensive memes. I’d tense up just seeing an email from him, afraid to open it. Fun family visits devolved into one way conversations: him talking, me listening. Where Dad saw Trump as a champion for Christian values, I saw him as an existential threat to democracy.

“Dad, seriously. How can you support him? You’re a Christian.”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Poor guy puts up with so many lies and he doesn’t let it bother him.”

I tried again. “He grabs women by the crotch and brags about it!”

We’d go round and round.

Mom couldn’t stand the conflict, begging us to stop.

Dad would always close with “but he’s a businessman.”

I wanted to keep the peace but I couldn’t find common ground anymore. I went easy on Dad knowing these days were hard for him, Mom’s dementia was progressing and he was caring for her. At the same time, as a single mom of three teenage boys I wanted to set an example. Trump was no role model. As their only child who would be caring for them someday, I wanted to maintain a nice relationship but tension seemed to escalate with each visit.

Summer of 2019 a friend invited me to a fundraiser in Santa Monica for Kamala Harris’s presidential campaign. An intimate conversation with the Presidential candidate and a small group of donor/friends in his living room. I didn’t know much about her going in, but I left there feeling excited and empowered. She was articulate, strong but caring, experienced, all the things. I took photos to remember this historic evening.

I had a hope for the future I hadn’t felt for a long time.

I went home and I proudly posted the photo as my Facebook profile.

Kamala 2019 Let’s Go!!!

That week when I called my parents, it went to voicemail.

I left a message. “Call me!” No phone call back.

I emailed a cheery “Hey there, checking in!”

Nothing. No emails either. Next day the same thing. This went on for a few days.

I bet he’d seen my Kamala/Facebook photo. Good, I’m glad. I can be excited and outspoken about Kamala like he’s excited for Trump and it should not affect our relationship. I’m his daughter. We can have two-sided conversations about politics. We’re family. Maybe once he cooled off this will be an icebreaker for us. I wanted that.

Donald Trump had just announced his 2020 re-election. I expected a flurry of MAGA mails from Dad. A week went by. Nothing.

Was my dad really ghosting me?

This silent treatment was kind of great but then I was filled with panic. I drove out to their house 30 minutes away. He greeted me at the door.

“Dad, why haven’t you returned my calls?

He shook his head. “I love you honey, but you are totally lost.”

It was a gut-kick to hear my own dad say this to my face but I knew my act of defiance, publicly supporting Kamala for president was a deal breaker for him. But I also knew I was not lost at all.

Things got quiet when Biden won in 2020 and Dad got quiet too. I was included in a group email sharing the news that he had throat cancer and would soon start radiation treatment. He didn’t even call to tell me himself. He was distant. I knew he was sick and I wanted to help.

“Dad, please let me help you.” I was concerned. He was driving himself to radiation treatments daily. I was worried about Mom alone with dementia and offered to shop for them, bring meals, and take them to doctor visits.

“Honey, we’re doing fine, our church family is helping us.” I wasn’t used to being out of touch with them but with Mom’s condition he was the only one communicating. I felt like I lost them both. It was heartbreaking.

I invited myself to their annual church dinner, just showed up. I wasn’t sure how many more opportunities I’d have to see him and I just wanted to connect. I sat across from him and he hardly looked at me. He pointed out a new family. “They’re a lovely family and their daughter is a good Christian woman. A wonderful daughter.” I was not a wonderful daughter. “Unfortunately, their son is a raging homosexual.” I sat there thinking about this son and wondered what that poor guy had gone through. I wish I had his number. We’d have a lot to talk about.

The next week I got a call from their church friend. Dad had fallen and was in the hospital. He was there with Dad and I’d run out to their house to take care of Mom. I packed a bag and headed out, prepared to stay as long as needed. She was glad to see me and I was happy to be there.

I got Mom settled watching a movie and on a trip to the kitchen I noticed something.

There it was. A big white binder. Left out on the dining room table for me to see.

I sat down and opened it up. It was their will. Dad had replaced me with a man from their church. This man was now the executor of their will and had Power of Attorney for both of my parents. I was out.

I was stunned. I was sick. I was furious. This was my punishment.

I sat there with my head on the dining room table, trying to make sense of it all. Why should I be surprised? This is where we were and where we had been for a while now. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I felt a weight lifted. It somehow felt honest. Now I knew where we stood.

I fixed Mom some some dinner and we went to see him in the ICU.

He had tubes coming out of everywhere, was sunken in to his bed and small. “Don’t be mad” he whispered when he saw me, his eyes wide.

“He’s a businessman, he’s a businessman…” he trailed off. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the new executor or Trump.

He’s a dying man. I wanted peace for him…and peace for myself.

“Dad, it’s ok. I don’t care about that right now.” Mom and I were standing in this tiny room, covered in PPE with 10 minutes to see him, maybe our last. After 67 years of marriage this is not what I wanted for her, for them.

He was coming home for hospice care if he made it through the night.I went back to the house and moved the furniture around in the living room so they could wheel his bed and equipment in. I set up the couch for Mom to be next to him. Brought down all the fluffy pillows and cozy blankets. I arranged flowers. Set Alexa to all classical. I lit candles.

He came by ambulance and the men wheeled him in. He looked around, so clear and full of energy. Smiled brightly at me, at Mom. Said he never noticed how beautiful the room was before. He wanted eggs and toast, I got right to it. He wanted me to steam and shave his face. I tucked them both in. It was just the three of us. For the last night we were a family again.

The next morning, his breathing was heavy and I called the hospice nurse. I stood on one side, Mom on the other. He was going fast and gripped our hands. Looking at Mom, he whispered, “I love you.” Then he turned to me, tears rolling down his face and exhaled “I’m sorry.”