The Difference Between Dead and Dying

I've spent this past week re-reading the emails I wrote and received in the week surrounding my father's death in 2005.

There are several things that strike me about those emails, but the most startling one is this:
My. Father. Died.

Anyone who knows me (everyone reading this?) knows that that is a pretty absurd thing for me to say. The fact that my father is dead is pretty much a defining characteristic of who I've become over the last six years. I talk about it more than is seemly. But being "dead" is different than "dying." The idea that he was alive one moment and not the next is still something I have trouble wrapping my head around. I've come to accept that my father is dead. I'm not sure I will ever accept that he died.

And my father's death was not a quick one. You would think I had time to process it when it was happening. It was a fairly steady six week decline, but I can only make that observation in retrospect. During those six weeks it seemed like we were on the craziest roller coaster you could ever imagine. That's because when faced with the unknown that looks pretty damn bad, any slight uptick that occurs in your favor is magnified beyond belief.

For example, the week that he died (on a Friday) I had made a commitment to myself that I would be in my office in New York for five continuous days - something I hadn't done in over a month. It seemed possible. My dad was in a coma with no real signs of anything changing anytime soon. My brother had flown to Pittsburgh from California to manage things for a while. I showed up at work on Monday morning and proceeded as if five days in the office were possible. In fact, I spent much of Monday (if my gmail tells the tale of my day) trying to find a girlfriend to see a show with me that Thursday night. Yup, I actually had tickets to see an off-Broadway play that week, because, as I said in my email to a friend, I was trying to "live as normal a life as possible." As My Father Was Dying.

It seems absurd in retrospect but I have to remind myself that during the last week of his life, we didn't KNOW it was the last week of his life.

It turns out I didn't make it to the play nor did I last five straight days in the office: I got the call Thursday afternoon that it was "time." Time to fly back to Pittsburgh. Time to turn off the machines.

I had forgotten that I had tickets to a show until I re-read those emails. When I think back on that week in my mind, it is just the week my father died. I didn't remember trying to act normal. It seems ludicrous, with what I know now, that I was expending energy trying to do anything but survive that ordeal. But that is hindsight. In the moment I think I would have done anything approach normal.

Here's another thing that strikes me about these emails: My friends and family are AMAZING. The things that were said to me, the things that were done for me, the distances people traveled to make sure I was surrounded by love: It's frankly overwhelming even now, even six years later.

As I re-read the emails I realized how raw I was. I realized how hard it must have been to support me, whether my ordeal was touching raw nerves and stirring memories of their own losses or whether they had no idea what it was like to lose someone close to them (which may have made my emails even harder to understand) and yet so many of my friends were so present for me.

If there is one silver lining in these sorts of situations (and I actually happen to think there are many), I think it is the opportunity that really difficult situations allow us to show those we care about just how much we care. I have always been grateful for the circumstances (like a wonderful and understanding boss) that allowed me to be there for my dad. It may have been the hardest thing I have done in my life to date, but I think I rose to the challenge and I think he knew it.


Still, I am far more comfortable being the person with a dead dad than I am being the person who watched him die. From the vantage point of six years out I'm not quite sure how I survived it.

(Photo courtesy of Matt Cohen Photo, who, I should mention, is making Neil Cohen very proud right now. Check out THIS out.)