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When my father's oncologist's office called to ask me if I would accompany him to his next appointment, I knew the news wouldn't be good. After several years of immunotherapy for his lung cancer, my usually robust and energetic father didn't seem like himself. He was weaker, sleeping more, eating less and losing weight.
The doctor confirmed our suspicions that Dad's treatment was no longer working. The cancer had spread, and trying a new protocol didn't seem like a good option. Instead, the doctor, with great compassion, suggested that it was time to consider at-home hospice. My father and I agreed.
The news was sad but also a relief. After fighting cancer for the second time, Dad was tired. Having been diagnosed at 49 with stage 3 cancer (and cured), he felt blessed to have lived to be 82 years old. Dad loved his life, cherished his family and didn't want to die. But he was more than ready to stop treatment and live out the rest of his days at home, however long that would be.
Knowing that my father was going to die within the next six months, I savored our time together, whether in person or on daily phone calls. While his body was breaking down, his mind and sense of humor remained sharp.
During those days, our conversations ranged from powerful to utterly mundane. We talked about Dad's childhood and mine. We laughed at some memories, cried at others and playfully argued when our version of events didn't quite match up.
We discussed politics, parenting, books and the TV show The Bear. No matter the topic, I listened intently to his words. I didn't want to look back and think, "I wish I would have asked …"
Which is why one afternoon, weeks before he passed away, I asked, "So, what are you thinking about your funeral?"
Looking back, I should have eased in. Instead, my nerves and emotions caused me to blurt it out with no soft lead-in at all. I just knew it was a conversation we needed to have and it felt like it was time. Dad was cognizant; he wasn't in pain and his death still seemed far enough off that we could speak about the topic without totally falling apart.
At first, he said nothing and stared into the space between us. I wasn't sure if I had upset him. He was just deep in thought because, after a few minutes of silence, he began listing out all of the dos and don'ts he wanted for the service and shiva to follow.
I listened intently, taking notes at times, so I could accurately recount this conversation to my brothers (I wanted to make sure they knew about this conversation while there was time for them to speak to him as well, if they wished to).
We talked honestly about all the details. I knew Mom and Dad had purchased cemetery plots years ago. As for a casket, Dad said, "Don't spend a lot, but not too cheap."
When he said he wanted a graveside service where all his kids would speak, I countered that it may not be the best idea. I reasoned it would probably be cold out, and hard for mourners to stand outside through long eulogies. He thought about it and agreed to an indoor chapel service. But he was adamant that the clergy shouldn't say much, since it wouldn't be someone who knew him well.
My mom, who was in the kitchen, walked past and heard a snippet of our conversation. "Why are you talking about this?" she admonished. "It's a horrible thing to discuss, and there is no reason to bring it up."
I wasn't surprised she felt that way. She grew up believing that there are things you don't discuss. In her mind, these topics are either impolite, sad or inappropriate.
But not talking about it didn't make it less of a reality. My father was going to die. We didn't know if he would pass in a few days, a week or a month, but we knew he was terminal. He knew he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to change that. A proud and controlling man who liked being in charge, this conversation gave him a chance to have some control.
Dad passed away two months later, at the end of November. Mom was too overwhelmed and asked my brothers and me to handle everything. Luckily, I knew what I needed to do. Though I moved in a robotic manner, making calls and arrangements, I never doubted my decisions. Dad may have been gone, but his voice was in my head, guiding every choice I made.
My brothers and I moved in a united fog of grief, knowing what to do with no reservations or disagreements. We weren't doing things Mom's way or my way. We were doing things Dad's way, even with him not there.
When one of my brothers expressed reluctance about giving a eulogy, it was easy to get him to reconsider. He knew Dad wanted him to speak, so he did. When the rabbi suggested he give a sermon at the service, we all replied, "No, thank you," confident that Dad was pleased by our joint response.
That conversation was one I never wanted to have, but I am glad I did. Saying goodbye to my father was hard and painful. Knowing what he wanted me to do made that time just a little easier.
Have any of you had this difficult conversation with a parent? How did it go? Let us know in the comments below.
María Hergueta
