Grief is like an old friend. The kind of old friend that, over time, you lose touch with. The old friend that was once such a presence in your life, that you didn’t go anywhere without, but that began to wear on you; you started to lose touch and eventually it felt like maybe your time together had run its course. Things felt easier without that friend, lighter even. You go on in life and know, in your heart you are better off apart. And then, one day, your old friend shows back up-somewhat unexpectedly. It is amazing how quickly the two of your fall back in step with one another, like you’d never been apart. Part of it feels comfortable, in a strange way like you belong together. Your old friend wraps themselves around you like an old blanket from the past, and as you breathe in its smell, the memories come flooding back with all of those tears with them. And so when I said goodbye to my father-in-law, Dennis, my old friend grief welcomed me back into its embrace with open arms.
Two weeks ago, in a state of confusion, fear and desperation, Sean and I packed the kids and the worst packed luggage that ever was in the car, picked his brother up in Brooklyn and headed south after getting a call that his dad had taken a turn and was not doing well at all. He was headed for hospice.
Now for a bit of background, Dennis had Mesothelioma and was diagnosed about fourteen years ago. His prognosis then was about six months but with the help of Sean’s mother, his ex-wife, was able to find an amazing doctor to do a pretty radical, experimental surgery, and had results nothing short of miraculous. Dennis was a fighter, he was strong, and clearly knew he had so much more life to be part of. He married his wonderful wife, Pattie, saw Sean and I get married ourselves, was there before anyone else when I went into labor with Kennedy, drove up from North Carolina after only having been there a week to be with us when Jack died, and was right here again for Carter. He has grandchildren through his stepchildren as well that loved him like their own. All of this extra time allowed us to have him for so many of life’s most beautiful and some of life’s most difficult moments. But the thing about extra time is, is that you don’t realize it is “extra” until it’s over; and that’s the hardest part.
When we arrived at Duke, where he was being treated, Sean and his brother immediately went to the hospital to see the situation and be with him. When Sean called to tell me that they were moving him to a hospice closer to home as quickly as they could, I instantly heard the panic in his voice. When we were on our way further south he said to me, “I know it’s bad, the doctors said they had to get him out of the hospital before they no longer could.” I could see the fear in his eyes that, every time he mentioned his dad, looked like it was going to spill out. All I could manage to offer was, “We are here now. You were able to see him and be with him. And you will stay here as long as you have to.” And mentally I was preparing myself for that to be a few weeks.
The day before Dennis had apologized on the phone to Sean for ruining his Sunday and told him he was going to try and make it through Christmas. That day he apologized for maybe going to ruin Kennedy’s Christmas. Even in the worst of it this man was thinking of his sons and his grandchildren, and really that sums up who he was as a man.
From the moment I met him, fifteen years ago, I was struck by how two people could be so alike. Sean and his dad are more similar than I could possibly find words for; in looks, in mannerisms, in sense of humor, in disposition. They are cut from the same cloth. I could look at Dennis and feel quite confident that I was looking at Sean thirty years later.
He instantly welcomed me into the family, always making sure I had someone to talk to. Though I come from a big, loud family of my own, at family functions when I needed a breather he was the quiet I could seek out. When he talked to me, he really listened and would ask about things I’d said later on. He sat with me at Sean’s baseball games and made me laugh through the sport I clearly didn’t follow. When we got married, he was the only one that didn’t offer his opinions-just his support. He checked in on me every single day while I was pregnant with Kennedy and, my god did he fall in love with that little girl when she’d arrived. It didn’t matter that Papa didn’t live nearby, he and Kennedy were inseparable when they were together; one of the few people she would willingly go with without a fuss. She could sense his easygoing nature from the beginning and loved to play with him.
When they moved away I know it was hard for Sean, especially since we had just lost Jack. Though it was not something he talked about, he offered his support in the ways he knew how, lending us money for funeral expenses, offering to fly us down for a visit to the warmth and away from the sadness we couldn’t escape at home. His and Pattie’s new home in Calabash quickly became our favorite place. There was nothing Sean loved more than playing golf with his dad; forever competing with each other and Sean often on the losing end. Papa was always willing to brave the cold ocean (and Glamma too-I can’t leave her out!) and Kennedy knew it, begging to go in the second our toes hit the sand. We have so many memories, beautiful, beautiful memories of our weeks spent in the sun with Dennis that we do not have to look far in our hearts to remember them.
Things happened very quickly once he arrived at the hospice, a lovely place- for what it was. We spent the first evening there with him, he was tired and uncomfortable though participating in some conversation. We said goodnight, as we were all pretty exhausted working off of about 4 hours of sleep. We headed back to his house for the night before we could check into the condo we rented the next day and got some rest. His siblings and cousin/best friend were due in the following afternoon. We woke the next day, Sean’s brother gathering Christmas decorations to take over and make it more homey and festive, and Sean and I trying to help get the house in order that has been left in a hurry the days before. We let the kids catch up on rest with naps and couch time when we got a call from his brother saying we needed to get there in a hurry. By the time we made the 15 minute drive over it was a much different picture. This man that we loved so dearly was struggling. It was made clear that things were progressing much more quickly than we’d expected. Our beloved, dad, Papa and Dennis had days rather than weeks.
Kennedy, my sweet old soul, was aware of what was coming. It is impossible for her to not read mine and Sean’s faces and emotions. She entered the room and gave her Papa a big hug and showed him the ornaments she had made and brought for his tree. She talked to him and brought him drinks and cookies. She decorated his tree and room, desperate to make him smile. And he did, for her; it is something I will be thankful for in my heart forever. She desperately needed to feel like she was making him happy. Carter, happily oblivious to anything out the ordinary, toddled around the room, smiling at everyone, giving Papa ornaments to hold and his finger-his affectionate, hysterical alternative to a high-five. Though Kennedy smiled for him, and he for her, I could see she was nervous and he was tired and not feeling well. We took lots of breaks and walks. More family arrived and emotions were high and was all becoming too much; for the kids, for me, for Sean and most importantly for Dennis. I knew it was time for me to go with the kids. I knew it was time to say goodbye.
As we made our way over to his bed, Kennedy walked right up to him and wrapped her arms around him and said, “Bye. Love you, Papa!” It was in the next moment that I knew we were saying our last goodbyes and this was an all too familiar feeling for me and I could barely breathe. Dennis closed his eyes and said in the strongest voice he could muster, “Oh Kennedy, I love you so much.” Then he kissed and hugged Carter and smiled big up at him. When it was my turn I could barely talk; it was taking everything out of me not to get hysterical. I hugged him so tight and kissed his cheek. I told him I loved him and he said, “Oh Trish I love you too.” The last thing I said to him was, “I promise to take care of your baby boy. Can you go and take care of ours for us?” and without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Promise.” I left that night knowing we would not go back day if the next day came. I had to leave it at that for Kennedy. I had to have her last moments with him be of him telling her how much he loved her; she would need that to hold onto soon.
The next day came for him and Sean was there with him, along with his brother and everyone else, but soon he was sleeping and did not wake again. Once again the timeline changed; we were told hours not days. Then the waiting came-for everyone. I was back at the condo with the kids and no car. Desperate to entertain them and stay busy while fending off the building anxiety that was pushing against me and so they played in the shower for an insane amount of time, I received a makeover with all of my expensive make-up (when a grieving six year old requests to give you a makeover, you oblige and you like it), walks, more screen time then I'd care to admit, and enough pasta, butter and parmesan cheese to send you into a food coma. And then when the baby was down and Kennedy was almost asleep, I got the call. ‘He’s gone.” And the heartbreak was enormous. For Pattie, losing the man she loved fiercely, for Sean, losing his best friend and father, for Kennedy, losing her beloved Papa. The loss felt suffocating.
And then the fear set in for me. Could we recover from this? We had finally made our way back to a good place; could we do it again? But as Sean came through the door a few hours later and hugged me and cried and asked, “What am I going to do?” I was heartbroken for him but knew we would be okay. We learned from Jack how to grieve and survive it. We will do it again.
The next days were filled with what they should be: family, hugs, tears, laughter, and wonderful memories. But they were exhausting. And as everyone eventually headed back home, things set in that opened the wounds. This would be the last time we came down here when Dennis was alive. Sean was not able to call him along our travels and tell him about the traffic and stops we’d made. We would have to return to school and work. Life had to go on and as I have also learned, sometimes that’s the hardest part in all of this.
As with all sad stories, there was incredible love that came before the sad part. In his sixty-four years John Dennis Doyle inspired a love that I can only hope to have and be surrounded by when the end of my story has come. And as I have learned all too well not so long ago, with great love comes great grief, it is the price we pay.
To my friend, Grief; you can visit for a while but you cannot stay. I respect that you are needed here for a time but you will not be allowed to overshadow the beautiful life of Dennis; that cannot get lost in all of this.
And to the man that taught the love of my life to be a man: We will love you forever. We will miss you forever. We will see you again.
