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My husband's father, Bill, died from complications of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis on the day that George W. Bush was sworn in to office. A dedicated liberal Democrat, we always thought it was his final comment on just how much he resented the Republicans taking over. Never a smoker, Bill was in his 70's, and had been having trouble breathing. For the last years of his life he had been on oxygen, a tank at home, a portable device for when he was out. The week before he died he hadn't known that he had confused the tubing between the two when he went to change from one to the other, and for about an hour hadn't received any of the supplemental oxygen. When he got up to go to the bathroom, he collapsed and was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. My husband, Bob, was with him the entire week he was in the hospital, sleeping on the floor of his hospital room at night. When Bob came home for a short break, Bill died. I think Bob was keeping him from going, holding him with his love and concern, and it was only when he left that Bill could take off for parts unknown.
this was the first death I ever really felt like I experienced. It was the first time I realized death was connected with "letting go," and I remember dad facilitated that for Granddad. Granddad was in a struggle where he just had to let go, and it wasn't going to come easily, just like letting go of anything else. We never want to let go of what is familiar and what we know. It's the first time I realized death wasn't simple. To let go of something you've always known, life, is obviously incredibly hard. And dad had to help Granddad realize that letting go of life wasn't something terrible and unjustified. Death has been so strange to me since. This painting is beautiful.
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