Loving Papa, Missing Papa

When I enter my parents’ apartment, the first thing I do is look to the left and glance at the dining table, where my father used to sit in the mornings and afternoons to read the newspaper. 

But I will never see him again. Not at the dining table, in his reading chair, or anywhere else. The most constant, quiet and reassuring presence in my life is gone. This is the new reality, and I know that it is, but I have yet to fully grasp what it means. 

Papa is gone. Papa is gone. Papa is gone.

He’s been gone for a while, even before he passed away. It wasn’t sudden. We knew it was coming even though he deteriorated quickly. After his stroke and the crushing diagnosis – colon cancer, final stage – the doctors at the hospital told us that he doesn’t have much time left. He was then transferred to the palliative care unit of another hospital. 

At first, our collective efforts went into bringing him home. We weren’t allowed to see him in the hospital due to COVID-19 restrictions, only after he was transferred, we could visit – patients nearing the end at least enjoy this little privilege. To be able to bring Papa home, there were things we needed to prepare, mostly administrative stuff, like getting a proper hospital bed and finding a palliative care team that would help us take care of him. 

When he finally came home, Papa required round-the-clock attention and care. He was happy to be out of the hospital, to be in familiar surroundings and to spend time with us. On his first day home, the sun was shining, and he asked if we could sit outside in the garden. Papa was already so weak, but my sister and I managed to carefully maneuver him into the wheelchair and cart him outside.

He was all smiles and joked around, the sunlight warming his face, and when Mama brought him a cup of coffee in his favorite red mug, they blew a kiss at each other at the same time. 

Papa then asked if he could speak to Mama alone, and my sister and I went back inside. I couldn’t help but observing them through the window – not because I wanted to eavesdrop, but because seeing them, huddled up to one another, talking softly, was both beautiful and heartbreaking. There was so much palpable intimacy, trust and love between them, that I almost thought I could reach out and touch this feeling with my bare hands.

After a while, Papa was exhausted, and we brought him back to bed. He didn’t have the strength to leave it again. 

Our days and nights were filled with taking care of Papa, always rushing to his bedside when he stirred – when he was thirsty, when he was hungry, when he needed cleaning up or yet another morphine shot to ease the pain.

It was tough. Not only the sleep-deprivation and constantly being on alert – the hardest part was to hear Papa crying out in pain and not being able to take away his suffering. 

He slept a lot and even when he was awake, Papa was often disoriented. Because of the stroke he had suffered, his speech was impaired. Sometimes, when he was lucid, he wanted to say something but couldn’t – he slurred, and we couldn’t understand him, leaving everyone, but especially him, frustrated.

But we also had good and precious moments, when Papa spoke more clearly and was himself again, with his cheeky sense of humor. He requested ice cream and champagne and rolled his eyes when we told him that none of the German teams had made it to the semifinals of the Champions League. He gently patted my hand when I lamented the fact that Bayern Munich had decided not to renew Boateng’s contract and kept his fingers crossed for more than an hour when I was sitting in the next room for a job interview. Sometimes, we didn’t say anything but listened to classical music together, accompanied by his labored breathing.

I yearned for these moments when Papa was lucid, wanted to savor them, but in the end, they were few and far between. One time, he said to me and my sister: “I can’t do this anymore.”

Papa left us on April 30, at 6:17 AM. Only one hour before, Mama had woken us up, asking for help because Papa needed another injection; afterwards, we went back to bed, only to hear Mama calling us again a bit later. We could feel that the end was near. The only thing left to do was to hold his hand, gently stroke his cheeks, plant kisses on his forehead and reassure him that we loved him, that he had given us the best life possible, full of support and understanding and love, and that he mustn’t be afraid. 

And then, Papa was gone. Just like that. Gone. Not a living and breathing part of this world anymore.

The doctor came to issue the death certificate, and then we called the undertaker to pick him up. I didn’t want the last image of Papa in my head to be of his lifeless and already cold body carefully wrapped up in a body bag, being wheeled out of his home forever. But I also couldn’t look away. 

Papa was there when I took my first breath in this world, and I was there when he drew his last. 

I know that I should be grateful that he had a good life, possibly a great one, and that he was a loving, patient and kind man who adored his wife and his daughters and was adored in return. I know that I am lucky to be part of an incredibly close-knit family, the kind that loves spending time together watching football, TV shows and movies, having breakfast until noon, going on long afternoon walks on the weekends, and engaging in lively debates.

Of course, I know all of this, and I am grateful – but it doesn’t make this loss any more bearable. 

I look at my mother, who was married to my father for 47 years, and I can’t even begin to fathom what kind of strength it takes for her to carry on. I look at my sister, who has remained as solid as a rock, always offering a word of comfort and a shoulder to lean on. We try to keep it together, to support each other the best way we can.

During Papa’s last days at home, there was always somewhat of a commotion, day and night. Now, there is nothing but a cruel and deafening silence. Grief and sadness seeps out of every corner of this house. But in addition to mourning, there is another sentiment that outshines everything else: love. 

Love is in every tear we shed and in every memory we share.

On the day Papa came home from the hospital, Mama was standing by the window in the kitchen where she could keep an eye on the street. Papa had been in the hospital for almost a month by then, and we were all excited that he was finally released. Of course, we knew that he was coming home to die – as devastating as this may sound – and yet, there wasn’t a single moment that Mama thought it would be too much, too exhausting, too demanding. It was his last wish to come home, and Mama moved heaven and earth to make it possible.

When we saw the ambulance service pulling up on the driveway, Mama clapped happily in her hands and said: “He’s here! He’s home!”

And I knew in that moment, perhaps clearer and plainer than ever before, what it means to love someone. Fully, completely, entirely. 

“Grief is forever,“ Jandy Nelson wrote in one of her novels. “It doesn't go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. [...] That’s just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other.“

I love you, Papa. I miss you and can’t wait to see you again when my time comes.