Time has passed once again without my consent

It was a year ago today that my father died. Tonight I was trying to remember if he died at 2PM or 4PM (not sure why that seemed important, but it did). I went to my computer and looked in my "Dad" directory, wondering if I'd saved a note that day that would give me a clue. I found this bit of writing I did at his bedside:

"There's a new crackling sound behind his breath. And is it my imagination or is his chest heaving even more than it was a moment ago? Each time he takes a breath it's like he's run a long distance and is trying to catch his breath. It's hard work - dying. That's what people keep saying.

I welcome the change, in a morbid way. This sitting around with nothing to do except listen to him
breathe, in the awkward trio that is me Ken and my mother, it's not fun. Before Ken arrived, my mother and I were playing cribbage, but Ken didn't want to play three handed. "There are no good three-handed card games," he said.

Before it was just his rib cage that heaved, but now his lungs are pulling so hard there are valleys that appear just below his collar bones on each side. I suppose maybe it's that deeper inhalation that's causing the crackling sound. It's supposed to be air passing over the dried phlegm in his throat that's accumulated because he's not swallowing.

I want him to die now. An awful thing to say, but it's like he's just a shell. I suspect that's not true, though. Somewhere inside I think something of his soul lingers until the end.

But here we are together for the last time. The four of us. Our little family unit.

They never show death like this on TV or in the movies. There it's a quiet nodding off, the head dropping. Not this long drawn out affair, one breath after another, and the slow changes in that breathing.

You can see it's the body's reflexes now, there's nothing voluntary about this breathing. One gasp after another, the body greedy in it's never ending desire for oxygen. But it will end. Eventually. How long with that be now? Another hour? Two? Five?

How much of this is caused by his soul hanging on, clinging to this dimension, and how much is this dimension, his physical form, clinging onto him?

I want to talk to him, I want to tell him it's okay to go, but I'm holding back. I can't do it in front of Ken and my mother. I'm afraid they'll think it sounds stupid..."

I didn't write any more. At some point around then I think his breathing must have gotten even more dramatic. The three of us all got up and stood around his bed. I remember crying and stroking his arm, and at some point I did overcome the embarrassment and start talking to him. I remember saying, "It's okay to go now." He did shortly after.

The file was saved at 4:43 PM, so the mystery is solved. He died around 4:00 and then there must have been 43 minutes of aftermath - conferring with the doctor, tidying, putting all the stuff we'd brought in over the last week in a box. I shut down my computer at the end of all that, saved the unfinished writing. Then we drove home.

I remember the whole week before he died feeling incredibly aware of the inevitability of time. I didn't want to enter the new phase of life that would be the one after my father was alive, but I knew it was going to happen anyway, whether I wanted it or not. My reluctance was irrelevant.

Since then it's been a year full of transitions: a new job, a new relationship with my mom, a new set of responsibilities helping her take care of her finances and her house. And despite my initial reluctance most of those changes have been positive. I feel like I'm in a good place.

This week I've been feeling an echo of the same reluctance I felt last year. I'm not sure why, but I don't want the end of this day to happen. After that it will won't be the first year anymore. I think I'm afraid that life without my father won't be extraordinary anymore.

Ah, but now that I look at the clock, it's after midnight, so it's not July 18th anymore. Time has passed once again without my consent, and I've been forced to enter a new era.