Hi. Welcome to Bloom Anywhere. I'm Gwen Moran, a writer, editor, author, and problem-solver. My goal is to share information, ideas, and resources to help you overcome obstacles, reach your goals, and find more joy in life, even when things are messy. Thanks for joining me. (If you got this from a friend, subscribe here.) I'd love your feedback and suggestions for future topics. Please send me an email: connect@bloomanywhere.com.
Throughout my life, I’ve strived to be a good daughter. It’s part of who I am. Growing up, I (mostly) obeyed the rules and watched my younger siblings. I was the housework helper and a good student. I was the first one to finish college. After my parents' nest was empty, I made sure to call or visit a few times each week.
Because they know I’m a good daughter, friends and acquaintances regularly ask me how my dying father is. I reply with some version of “Hanging in there” or “Oh, you know my dad. He’s a tough guy.”
Those are the things a good daughter says. Terrible. Tortured. Lonely. Heartbroken is what I say in my head.
Good daughters are dependable, caring, and kind. They don’t get flustered. They put family first. But it wasn’t until my parents were dying that I agonized over what that really means.
Dying, Neatly and Not
My mother died neatly. One afternoon, after a visit from her best friend, who brought her a beautiful bouquet of tulips, she sat in her favorite chair and fell asleep for the last time. The bouquet was in a vase on the table in front of her.
I received a text from my brother and raced to my parents’ apartment. The emergency medical technicians had left her body lying flat on the floor, a police officer standing guard in the room as a matter of protocol. My father sat near her, head in his hands, wracked with grief. I moved two chairs between her and the doorway and draped a blanket over them, giving her some privacy and ensuring that the little boy down the hall couldn’t see her as people came in and out of the apartment. When the two men from the funeral home finally arrived, I stood next to her as they put her body in a black zippered bag, lifted the bag onto a gurney, and wheeled her away. It's what any good daughter would do.
My father’s impending death, due to end-stage congestive heart failure complicated by dementia, is messier. His children’s lovely suburban homes have swimming pools and playrooms but can't accommodate a hospital bed and 24-hour care. The demanding careers for which he paid to educate us—and which he expected us to embrace—consume long hours and leave only fixed windows of time to spend with him. Our incomes sustain our households. Our families depend on us. So, he lives in a nursing home, which, even from miles away, casts a shadow of guilt over my workdays.
A few months ago, we nearly lost him after he took a sudden turn for the worse. His nurse practitioner said he might go at any time. His children and grandchildren gathered around his bedside. We began hospice. We waited. He got better. And everyone went back to their lives.
A Daughter's Dilemma
A good daughter doesn’t let her father sit alone in a nursing home, I admonish myself regularly. So, as often as I can, I visit him after work and take over feeding him. Some weeks, I make it there regularly. Other weeks, when chronic pain, big deadlines, or my own grief are flaring, less so. The guilt when I can’t or don’t go feels like pressure in my chest and buzzing in my brain.
Some hire aides to help with their parents’ care and companionship. But my father doesn’t want “other people.” Shortly after my mother died, he locked a hired nurse out of his apartment. He told her to go away, but he would vouch for her presence, so she would still get paid. My friends have volunteered to visit him, but I politely decline, wishing to spare them his ire toward people he doesn't know.
On his bad days, when I sit with him, we have the same conversation for the 19th or 20th time: “Yes, everyone is doing well,” then, “Your car and your wallet? They’re here somewhere. We’ll have to look for them when you’re feeling better.” I try to calm him as he attempts to climb out of bed to go to work or return to his apartment.
On his good days, we watch a ball game on television and talk about his semi-professional football days. His stories make me suspect that his dementia is actually chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), which is caused by repeated traumatic brain injuries. On these days, he remembers almost everything, but he also worries about when I’m going to leave and when I’m coming back. It’s never enough time.
Lately, when I read obituaries that state someone died "surrounded by loved ones," I wonder if those loved ones were really all there in those last moments. Could all of those good daughters and sons skip their deadlines and Zoom calls indefinitely? How do those with big jobs and full lives manage to sit bedside, waiting for death to arrive?
“You’ll never regret the time you spent with him. Treasure every moment,” I’m told.
And that’s not wrong. I will miss him terribly after he’s gone. Still, no human being should live through what he’s enduring. Some days, it’s hard to know what to pray for. So, we sit. And we talk. And we wait. In those moments, I hope I am a good daughter.
