A Healing in the Hurricane

Dad died about a month ago, and then there was Hurricane Sandy. Heath, my 22-year-old son, and I were in the evacuation zone. We live on the water in Manhattan, so for two days we stayed in my father’s apartment. My sister and I have the apartment through November, so why not take advantage of the vacant space?

At first, I thought it might be spooky, but then I realized he would want us to be safe and to use this space. He always ended conversations with, “Do you need anything?” and Heath and I did need something—his apartment. 

Grieving is uncomfortable. It is a cold, hollow sensation shooting through my body. However, I was surprised that when we stayed in Max’s apartment it was warm and soothing. His vibration was all over the place. There were so many photos of him and his grandchildren, the American flag was on the window—Dad was a veteran of WWII—and his wall was full of paintings he collected over the years. It was his personal gallery. And my father, up until the very end, would read books in the living room and glance at his collection. How satisfying for him. With excellent hospice care, he had his wish: to die at home. 

Staying here for a few days I felt hugged by memories and his lingering spirit that permeates the place. 

Death is like a tropical storm. When someone you love is at the end of life and dies, there’s a great upheaval. Emotions feel larger than life, and the potential to fly off the handle is there at any moment. 

And yet you don’t. Last night, in the midst of the turbulence, I went grocery shopping. However, nothing was open except a small corner store. I bought $45 worth of staples, and as I crossed the street holding two shopping bags of food—one in each arm to weigh me down—I was staggering from the wind and had to stop and hold on to the railing a few times. It was weird; no one was on the streets. 

But seeing the light in my father’s lobby kept me going. My son was thrilled by the crispy treat I brought him, but at 9pm, when the lights went out here too, my father’s kind neighbors knocked on the door. For their young children, Halloween came early this year as they ran through the dark hall with a flashlight. The moral of the story: everything that happens in life is perfectly orchestrated—my father’s death after 95 years of life, Hurricane Sandy and her repercussions, Heath and I having some personal time to grieve my father’s loss. 

I know Max is laughing above it all as he goes to his next incarnation. 

Love you dad.