There is Something to be Said About the Relief I Felt

when my dad exhaled one final time.

18 months.

The morning Dad died was a collision of grief and relief. The condo was quiet and heavy, like the air emptied of something necessary. I cried for the loss, for the absence of him, but deep within, there was also an odd sense of release—his pain was finally over.

Grief and relief sat beside one another in my chest, tangled together, and I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It was a feeling of dismantled reality.

Watching Dad die was a lesson in the bittersweet agony of love. Every moment hurt—seeing him fade, watching cancer and pain steal pieces of him—but there was beauty in how we spoke to one another on a soul level, in the shared quiet, in the love that stayed when everything else was fleeing. It is a hurt I’d never wish on anyone, yet I wouldn’t trade those last moments for anything. The hardest goodbyes are the ones shrouded in love.

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Get Griefy Magazine - Issue 3

August 2024

"The oncologist said he only has 12 to 15 months!"

In the end, there is the beginning.

Daughter.

Death Doula.

The two co-existed.

I was able to create space for both during Dad's illness.

At times, I wasn't clear how, but I did. There was no other way.

My dad would not die with fear in his heart.

When I began my death doula education, it was before my dad's terminal cancer diagnosis. On a spiritual level, death has accompanied me since I was a child. Our pastor called it spiritual sensitivity. He said it was God's gift to me.

Why would it sometimes feel like a curse if that were the case?

I did not fear the unknown.

I was curious.

The odd one.

My parents never scolded me for what I saw or heard. They didn't pass it off as an overactive imagination. My mom approached it from a Christian stance, and my dad from a scientific one. I've studied both and all aspects for 30+ years.

I had not known what a death doula was until 2022. I experienced a significant health crisis in August 2021, one where many specialists didn't know what was happening to me. My body was shutting down, and we didn't know why. It was frightening.

Once a diagnosis was affirmed, which was in March of 2022, of pernicious anemia and small fiber and trigeminal neuropathy, I began to research how I could help those going through what I had. Interestingly enough, I came across an article about death/end-of-life doulas. I'd never heard of the term. I knew about hospice nurses but not anything beyond the medical field. With my health issues, I decided to close my apothecary business, but I wanted to know more about death doulas.

It felt right in my soul, a connection.

There were concerns among my husband and Dad, the main one being my strong empathic nature. What would it do to my nervous system, which was recovering from trauma? Would I absorb the loss as my own? But I continued my education, not knowing how valuable it would be in the coming months.

The call that changed everything was from my mom. I could hardly distinguish her words in between cries, "The oncologist said he only has 12 to 15 months."

I screamed but quickly gathered my composure as my husband and son rushed to my side. We were aware of my dad's cancer at that point, but we did not know it was terminal. We thought we had years, not months.

He didn't want to tell me, but my mom insisted. It was something that could not be kept from me. Without hesitation, I said, "We are coming home." We didn't know how it would work, but we would figure it out.

Within four months, we sold our home, packed up, and moved back to South Dakota from South Carolina.

In the beginning, my dad responded positively to chemotherapy treatments. We were cautiously optimistic as his blood work and scans showed improvement, but they were short-lived. He had two types of cancer, and though the chemotherapy reduced the tumors in some areas, the small-cell lung cancer began to spread like wildfire.

I continued my death doula certification. Throughout the years, I was involved in legacy projects and wrote and read eulogies and poetry for my family and friends. It always came naturally to me.

To have the words.

As my dad's cancer progressed aggressively, time wasn't on our side. As his daughter and death doula, my presence at every appointment was essential, especially once Palliative Care entered the picture. The doctors noted my position regarding his care. I could answer my parent's questions if they didn't make sense at the appointments. His Palliative Care doctor praised my death doula position, "I wish we had more of you in Sioux Falls, really in the midwest." I'd heard that often over the past months, especially from the hospital nurses.

Many are confused as to what a death doula does. There are various facets. Some work directly with patients, others teach about death and dying, and some work strictly on legacy projects.

The spectrum is vast.

When I was in my early 20s, working at a nursing home, I sat with dying patients who didn't have family when I wasn't answering the phones or filing paperwork. I hated seeing them alone and never wanted that for anyone I cared about. It was one of the reasons my dad chose in-home hospice care and not a facility. He wanted to be with his family, surrounded by familiarity. The awful stories about hospice care terrified him, but I promised him I wouldn't allow anything to happen that caused him discomfort or anxiety.

In the final weeks, Dad and I talked about what life would be like after he was gone. Some mornings, he wanted to talk about his anger and sadness; others, he was silent and would occasionally wipe away a stray tear. The most important thing I learned was to meet him where he was at that moment. I never pressured him to talk or ask questions; I was able to navigate his moods, which were dictated by varied aspects such as medication, grief, and the cancer in his brain, but I was always aware.

Five days before his passing, he was in his Last Hurrah, as they call it. It's a phenomenon we don't understand clearly, but it occurs when the dying person is alert, eats, drinks, and talks; the theory is that the person is trying to comfort their loved one before they die. It can last minutes, hours, or sometimes days. My dad's lasted roughly 48 hours.

He asked more questions about what was happening to his body. Me and his hospice nurse were honest with him; he was beginning to transition.

My grandma and aunt came to see him one last time. He fought me on that, but I told him he couldn't make that decision for them. He can't take that goodbye away from them.

He agreed.

"I'm sorry I got cancer." He said to my grandma and me. Tears streamed down his face, and I instantly wrapped my arms around him. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You did nothing wrong."

He looked at my grandma, "I don't fear this anymore. Andrea has shown me that hospice doesn't have to be scary."

That's all I wanted.

To eliminate that fear.

His last days were difficult.

They were met with restlessness, confusion, and pain. He was on various medications around the clock. He'd speak of things not visible to my eyes, but I never told him he was wrong or mistaken. I knew he was seeing beyond this world. I'd listen, and then he would rest. I never left the room without kissing his forehead and telling him I loved him.

I helped his hospice nurse change and clean him, reposition him on the bed, and discuss a change or increase in medications.

His hospice nurse turned to me after we had finished changing him. "I know you are his death doula, but why don't you be his daughter now? Let me handle everything else. I want to take that weight from you."

It was a lovely sentiment, and I adored her for it, but I couldn't do that.

Not even in his final hours.

In my death doula classes, we were taught that the body knows how to die, and it does. I know this; I've seen it before, but to witness it with my dad was an entirely different experience. He couldn't speak, but he tried.

I rubbed his knee. "You're going to be okay. You know you will be okay, right?"

He nodded.

My dad was awake until an hour before his passing. He was restless if he detected I was in the room. I could tell his vision was failing. His eyes darted about the room; he couldn't see me but could hear me. I sat silently next to him, watching him, begging God and my ancestors to come to him. I tried to hold his hand, but he pulled it away. I wasn't upset. He never wanted us to see him that way and was thinking about us, not him, even at the end.

I walked over to the window and opened it. Dawn painted the skies in red, orange, and yellow streaks, and the birds' melodic song drifted through the air.

The daughter and death doula merged at that moment.

It was a bittersweet intertwining.

"Listen to them, Daddy," I whispered.

I wanted him to follow the song; I wanted his soul to find the sunrise.

And he did.

July 7, 2023

7:21 AM

Dad was at rest.

I was relieved his suffering was no more while my mom and I cried and hugged in the kitchen. I called his hospice nurse, then returned to the bedroom and cleaned him.

Sang to him.

I took his hands, kissed each one, and tucked them beneath the covers. It was the first in weeks that I could touch him and not be in horrid pain.

I kissed his forehead.

I sat next to him in the stillness. It was the worst and the most beautiful moment.

It was just him and I.

Dad and daughter.

I memorized every inch of his face.

I folded his glasses and put them away inside his side table drawer, packed away his hospice supplies, and gathered his medication to dispose of it.

I kissed him one last time on the top of his head. "I love you, Daddy."

In the end, there is a beginning.

A beginning we didn't ask for, but here we are.

I'm slowly returning to my death work but not rushing and listening to my grief and body.

People tell me they could never do what I did with my dad. They couldn't handle in-home hospice. I understand that.

Everyone grieves differently.

It was challenging and, at times, awful.

However, I wouldn't have had it any other way, even with my chronic illness on the attack.

Society dictates we care for the dying outside of the home. We don't spend time with the body after the soul departs. Our grief should be fleeting, and we should return to the people we once were. That is when death workers push back against those cultural norms. When it comes to death and dying, we approach it at arm's length, which increases the fear and disconnect. Grief cannot be quickened or forced aside; that leads to unhealthy coping.

We need to do better.

I'm honored my dad trusted me with his death, and I hope I can continue to educate and assist more in my community because grief is truly love.