Daddy - (about grief)

I walked by his room. It used to be their guest room where I would stay. He has a hospital bed and has not moved back into his own room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. I went in and sat next to him. I said, Do you miss Mom? There is an 8 by 10 picture of her on the night stand, a very good picture. She is wearing red and looking lovely, even though she was old. He says yes. I said, I miss her, too. I miss her a lot. It's a huge loss. She took really good care of you. He is slumped over and his head is drooping. My dad is a tall man. He always looked like a huge tower of strength to me; he WAS my tower of strength, my security, not close or affectionate, but strong, stoic, consistent, a good provider. When people get old, they shrink. He is still tall but he's kinda crumpled at the moment.
I feel a little uncomfortable, but it seems helpful to talk about grief. He puts his hands to his head and tries to remember. He says that he can't remember how it all happened. I review it with him again.
Last June, Mom fell while working out at Curves, an exercize place. They have machines and they take turns on the machines. Every so often, they all step off the machine they are on and step onto the next one. Mom fell moving from one machine to the next and broke her hip and her wrist. So she went to the hospital and 2 days later, you had a stroke and ended up in the same hospital with her. Then you both went to a rehab center. Mom was making progress and ready to go home. But they said "your heart is doing funny things, we want you to go to the hospital for a few days to monitor you." When she got to the hospital, she got strep in her shoulder, knee and lungs and she had congestive heart failure and thrush and I forget what else. They said we can't fix you. She said I want to go home, I want hospice, and I want lots of morphine and I want to go fast. I'm telling Daddy we took her home and brought in Hospice and that they took wonderful care of her and that I slept in the bed next to her and gave her food and water and whatever she wanted day and night.
Then you were alone at the rehab center. You were not getting the care you needed to get well at that place, so we brought you home and hired nurses to care for you. [I did not tell him that Hurricane Charlie was headed right for us during those days. I did not tell him that my oldest sister found out she had cancer and was undergoing treatment.]
I don't remember how I finished, but I said it's hard; really hard. it's so sad. I reminded him that my husband died 6 years ago. He never remembers this, as his short term memory is failing. I said, it was awful. It hurt so much. But I know it helps him to realize I've been where he is, because it helped ME to realize someone else had been where I was when I lost my mate. I want to scooch over close to Daddy and put my arms around him and say, Awww, poor baby or something dumb like that. But I don't. Daddy has never been the affectionate type and he's always been a bit stiff with hugs. Maybe later. Then I remind him how he went from not being able to walk, or read, or roll over in bed, to where he is now. I said you don't remember the stroke and maybe it's a good thing, because you had severe headaches, and when you tried to say I need to shave, you'd say I need to bird, or some nonsense word. Aphasia. I don't know how to spell it.
I feel helpless, but in my experience, I know that talking about his loss has to help him. His face gets contorted and he starts to cry, but he never really cries. His nose drips a little and maybe a tear or two comes out. But no sobbing. Women are better at letting it out.
I am back home now. Daddy is there with his caregivers and my sister.
Our time was not ALL sad talk. We spent hours asking him questions about his childhood in North Dakota and he enjoys telling his stories. We talked with him about God. Maybe that will be the topic of another post.