I Don’t Need Words
My family visited my dad last week. With covid precautions, it’s been quite some time since we’ve seen him. As I sat with him, and the boys destroyed his house as grandchild do, I found myself thinking back.
Nearly three years ago, my stepmom lost her battle with pancreatic cancer. The night before we lost her, I was driving my dad back to his house, from the nursing home where she would spend her last days.
It was nearing midnight. He was exhausted, close to 80 himself. He needed to rest for a few hours. It was foggy and cold, and I found myself weaving through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin, driving his truck.
I was white knuckling it, focusing the best I could through fuzzy eyes and trying to listen to his sporadic words of grief and say the right things. I felt scared, not knowing how to help him. We both knew she had mere days left.
Watching him sit next to her bed, holding her frail, pale hand, was almost more than I could take. When she would cry, the morphine not enough to dull the pain, he would hunch over her body, whispering ‘go to Jesus’ in her ear.
As we wound around the dark road, I wondered how anyone could watch their partner die that way. The pain she was experiencing was unbelievable. She was not spared. Neither was he. I prayed for it to end for both of them. But I didn’t know if I was praying for the right thing.
He said, ‘she’s still here Katie. She’s not gone yet. Even though she can’t talk, or communicate, she is still here. I can touch her and hold her hand. I can sit near her, and I can talk to her. I’m not ready to be without her. I need her. She doesn’t have to speak; I can do the talking.’
I thought back to when my own son Cooper was entirely nonspeaking. Back to when he wasn’t really trying to communicate either. Maybe a request on a speech device for a cookie or a sign for more but that was about it.
Of course, I talked enough for the both of us. And his dad and brothers never seem to stop making noise either. Our house is filled with love and chatter. But when it’s just the two of us, the silence overwhelms me sometimes.
I am sad sometimes that my son and I had never had a conversation. And maybe never will. But that car ride with my dad, without even knowing it, in his hardest moment, he taught me an important lesson.
I don’t need words; I just need Cooper. My amazing son. I just need him to hold and to love for the rest of my life. I can do the talking. Just as long as he’s with me.
My Dad said to me…’I still miss her so much. I would give anything just to be with her one more time. I have so much to tell her.’
Picture: Cooper on the shore of Lake Superior, a place we would go to often and just sit. Together.
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