My Father's Death Doula
I became my father's death doula quite by accident. From the moment he entered hospice, I spent every night after work and every weekend at his bedside. I was managing a clinic and my commute was outrageous, but my being there allowed my mother (who was already frail and crippled by her own illness) to rest, shower, and even sleep.
I would either cook for my dad or pick up whatever he wanted to eat that day. Anything he wanted, even if I had to order ahead or drive a little out of my way to get it. I would read to him, watch our favourite movies and shows, sneak him things he wasn't supposed to have, and sometimes just sit there in silent terror while he slept fitfully. I was simply present.
Just a few weeks in he abruptly told my mother and I that he didn't want any funeral or memorial service and that he didn't want anyone in the family to be able to cry over him. The reasons are a matter of perspective, but no one called or visited my father while he was dying. At one point I even called family to let them know they were running out of time to say goodbye to him. They never came.
My father was hurt and understandably angry. "If they can't say it while I'm alive, they don't get the chance to say it when I'm dead."
"Well, what about Tita?"
Tita had been a friend of the family -- a part of our family, actually -- for as long as I could remember. For years she and her family had lived next door to us. Her kids, just a little older than me, also called my parents Mom and Dad. My dad would frequently beg her to cook him all sorts of Puertorican delights, like bread pudding and arroz con gandules and her amazing flan. Every time she came back from the island she brought him a bottle of Barrillito. Most of that last bottle was still sitting in the liquor cabinet and a few cigars from a Cuban heritage tobacco plantation were in his humidor.
This gave my dad pause. "Tita's different."
"How about," I mused aloud, "Tita cooks all your favourites and then we eat them for you."
"Yeah, I like that idea. Make sure she makes pasteles."
I leaned over the rail of his bed and grinned at him. "How about we throw a proper Irish wake for you, but with Puertorican food. And no one gets to go home until they've drunk all of your booze and smoked all of your cigars in your honour. We'll play your favourite songs, dance all night, tell stories about you, and in the morning we'll have a 21-gun salute."
My father hardly needed to think about it and agreed almost immediately. When I headed home that Sunday, I stopped by Tita's house to ask her if she would host my father's memorial this way and follow his wishes. Tita cried and thanked me profusely for giving her the honour of doing it. I don't know if she can remember my parents now -- her mind has been stolen away by Alzheimer's -- but I know her heart remembers them because she loved them so much. Especially my dad.
When the time came and my father passed, my very first call was to Tita to let her know and give her time to plan. We had my dad's memorial the following Saturday night and his Marine Corps honours were on Sunday. We had one HELL of a party, let me tell you. I filled the table that held his urn and folded flag with all sorts of St Patrick's Day decorations, from Mardi Gras-style shamrock beads to little Irish flags. The kitchen was filled with food; Tita had recruited a small army to make sure every dish my dad loved was laid out. Neighbours, former teaching colleagues, and even students came to tell stories about him over the blaring rock-n-roll he loved.
Late into the night I walked around with the humidor offering my dad's cigars to anyone who wanted one while reminding them that no one got to go home until all the bottles were empty. My mother, who rarely drank, was completely smashed and loved every moment of his memorial service. She kept telling everyone that it had been my idea, that I had made this last part of tying up my dad's loose ends possible. I had helped him be at peace with what would happen after he died.
It didn't occur to me until about midnight that I hadn't seen Manny and Fred -- Tita's sons -- in quite some time. It also occurred to me that my father's neatly folded flag was not next to his urn where I left it. I headed into the front yard, made my way through the virtual parking lot of cars, and froze with my hand over my mouth. They had unfolded my father's flag and proceeded to run it up the flag pole in front of our old house so they could salute it. Then they took selfies with it.
I was laughing so hard that I didn't see my mother until it was too late. I steeled myself to calm her down, but nearly tripped when she dragged me along toward the flag while shouting, "I want to take pictures, too!"
To their credit, despite being completely shitfaced, the boys (who are also Marines) did a wonderful impromptu flag folding ceremony once they lowered it. It was a solemn and memorable event that reminded us that we were celebrating my father's life. They presented my mother with the flag, kissed her cheek, and held her tightly as she understood what she'd have to do the next day. I watched my mother cry and knew I had one last job to do to honour my father as part of his memorial.
The next day was bright and sunny and the subtropical flowers of the newly opened South Florida National Cemetery swayed in the breeze while my father's 21-gun salute shattered the air. After his service, one of the officers quietly approached me and said, "Dry eyes. Didn't even flinch. Your father would be proud of you."
I arched an eyebrow at him, a look my family is very familiar with. "I'm a Marine's daughter. His death doesn't change that."
Besides, I had been too busy staring at my father's flag, hoping they didn't suspect what had happened the night before...
