The priest comforted her when she grew agitated and tried to speak, held her hand when she became quiet, said the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm, and cried when mother stopped breathing. In retrospect, mother couldn’t have asked for more (or less), and neither could I.

Having had her wishes fulfilled – dying at home, going quickly, not making a fuss, and not being seen by her children at the end, I felt it was important to follow her wishes in the matter of the memorial. Perhaps it could just be a party, a piss-up, lots of talk, and singing, a wake, sitting shiva, instead of a memorial. My youngest sister is unstoppable though, and no affair is too small to be turned into an epic.

But no, my father was getting into the spirit of things too. He and youngest sister were going to rent a van, stuff it full of furniture and the dog, and make a roadtrip from the Maritimes to Ontario for the party. He had maps, he was planning routes. They were going to look at assisted living facilities. Dad was happier than he’d been in months.

It began to sink in that my mother’s death, and the way my father dealt with it, had nothing to do with me, or my brothers and sisters. It was their hard task, and they hadn’t the time for us. Once it was over, relief set in for dad, and grief for the rest of us. We felt we had been denied the chance to be with our mother when she died, but, as it turns out, we didn’t have that right, and we weren’t top-of-mind at the time.

One thing I will say. My father, imperious, bibulous, incapable around the house and selfish, had in the end stood up to his task like a man, and deserved every bit of happiness that was coming to him.

Keywords: caregivers, diary