Author: Teresina Chen
Director of Genesis Chinese Writing Ministry （https://www.gcwmi.org/home/）, Writer
Once, I thought the biggest challenge of being with you, with your dementia, was creating meaningful shared memories. Because you could no longer form them, all the memories belonged solely to me.
It felt like entering a silent world.
Some moments in life render one speechless, and some relationships defy description. They are like a full moon rising silently among a sky full of stars, or the quiet rise and fall of a baby's breath in the deep of night.
These moments are elusive, hard to capture, and need no deliberate preservation. When they appear, I am there, aware of the silent breathing, receptive to unexpected revelations.
Just like many times before, when I asked you, "Dad, are you feeling uncomfortable?" you always replied, "No, sweetheart."
That last "sweetheart" was a comfort, revealing your unconscious yet lingering paternal instinct, even though you had long forgotten you were my father.
These moments were enough to let me rest in your love--
I used to believe that living with you in your final chapter was a great blessing, witnessing your life gradually fade like the sunset. It felt like taking an important life lesson.
From the times after dinner when Yong Hao, the old dog, and I walked you with a cane around the backyard five times, to when you could no longer go out and had to be pushed in a wheelchair, growing increasingly fatigued; to your unexpected and creative ways of falling; to the times when your hands trembled so much that you couldn't bring a spoon to your mouth; to your gradually failing eyesight, until you were completely bedridden. Each thing you once did with ease became something you could no longer do, discovered one by one with each passing day.
Much like in Shakespeare's play "As You Like It," the last stage of the seven stages of life:
“Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”
From having to not having, human beings, this is how we age.
But I never anticipated that as you began your journey toward death, we would inevitably have to push your little boat inch by inch towards the far shore.
And in the midst of this, where do I find myself? I seem to be in the dark waters of death, feeling alien, uneasy, and unskilled at swimming. Struggling as I swim, gasping for breath, gently pushing your little boat forward, and further forward...
During my mother's final stage, I didn't seem to struggle this much. Perhaps because she was cared for from afar before her passing, with a caregiver handling daily tasks. I wasn't personally involved the whole way, "out of sight, out of mind." When my mother passed away, although I was by her side, it was in the confines of a hospital room. Many aspects of the journey towards death became different medical procedures, rather than the serene passing at home, where each step is a profound life experience. Though it was arduous, there was much grace in it.
Although it was difficult, there were many blessings along the way. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to see you off, all the way to Heaven's door.
Seeing someone home usually means accompanying them until you're sure they arrive safely. It's the same with hospice care. Unlike the hospital, there were no smells of medicine, voices, or various instruments—only your favorite classical music and the scent of your favorite cologne. In that sacred and intimate space, I sat quietly by your bed, writing extensively in my journal, reflecting on what "father" meant in my life and the journey we had shared.
Journeying together always signifies a relationship built on trust and gratitude. Our intimate bond was irreplaceable.
Throughout the universe and the world, I became your only fixed point after your dementia set in. You could forget anyone, but you always remembered me—your daughter, and my name. When we sat across from each other at meals, you often stared at me with an intense gaze that made me feel shy. I would wink at you, and you would always smile, a game that never failed.
Across the table, you became the faithful echo of my laughter, joy, anger, and reproach.
Until finally, you succeeded in forgetting my name and me. I was the one left on the shore, watching you drift away…
I once thought seeing you home meant a proper farewell and blessing. I never expected it to become my greatest struggle before your end.
My past life was filled with busyness—running the household, various church ministries, and taking care of you. Especially when the hospice nurse announced you were entering the final stage of dementia, we frantically upgraded your care, feeling like we were at war every day. Our interactions revolved around changing your clothes, bedding, feeding, and medicating you. Rarely did I have the chance to look into your eyes and truly see you.
At the end of the year, everyone in the house except you and me got sick. I was exhausted and at my wit's end. Desperate, we sent you to a short-term care center for five days and went to the desert for a short break. During those days, I finally got some sleep and had the chance to write extensively in my journal, reflecting on the past year's chaos and feeling guilty. I resolved to be a better daughter to you in the coming year.
However, when we brought you back home after the New Year, you no longer recognized me. In the past, you occasionally didn't, but it was always brief and you would remember after a reminder. This time, you truly forgot me.
Then, within two weeks, your body rapidly deteriorated, quickly falling apart. From the late stage of dementia to the "transitional period," and a few days later to the "active dying phase." I opened the book on palliative care, hoping to find a foothold for myself, and the first suggestion that jumped out was: give your loved one permission to die.
My heart clenched. I had never thought that "being your daughter one more time" would mean learning to "let go of you"!
I buried myself in writing my journal again, trying to answer this question concretely: Can I let go of you? And what is holding me back from doing so?
In the midst of this, facing your increasingly indifferent face, I began to struggle. Did you have any complaints about me? You used to smile as long as I smiled, and when I was troubled, you always lent a pair of ears, giving me your undivided attention. Why does your kind face now seem so distant, detached, and far away? Is there something I failed to do, something that disappointed you?...
When Yong Hao heard about my struggle, he immediately said, "This has nothing to do with you. If I show such indifference when I am dying, remember, it has nothing to do with you."
Yes, there is much irrationality in this. Because throughout my life, the feeling you gave me was that no matter what I did, you appreciated, accepted, and applauded it. In my childhood, when my piano practice sounded terrible, you were the only one who could bear it, sitting down to listen attentively and applauding afterward. In high school, whenever I needed help, a single call would bring you with all the supplies and assistance. As an adult, you offered advice and suggestions for my relationships, providing insights on men. Later, when I participated in literary competitions, you matched every prize I won with a personal reward.
Even after you lost the ability to help and protect me as a father due to dementia, whenever I struggled to turn you over or support you, I would sweetly plead, "Dad, you're heavier than me, I can't move you. You have to help me!" Each time, you tried your best to move your body to assist me. How could your love suddenly withdraw now?
So, was your indifferent face just my own discomfort, or was it my desperate attempt to hold onto your familiar expressions? This became my greatest struggle and lesson in facing death.
Until I read that withdrawal and detachment before death were part of the natural dying process. Caregivers need to discern the moment God calls back their loved ones.
I realized that death was a call from Him!
My whole life, I had only obeyed God's call. How could I refuse His call and not let you go now?
Moreover, for the timing and manner of His call—when and how He would take you—I could only fully obey, ensuring I wasn't an obstacle to your journey home.
So, the prayer I had once used for my mother before her passing, I now prayed for you: "In God's time, in Your way, with Your presence, deliver him!"
I finally have some understanding of this passage:
"As she was dying, the women attending her said, 'Don’t despair; you have given birth to a son.' But she did not respond or pay any attention." (1 Samuel 4:20)
A mother, upon the birth of a new life, should be filled with joy and love. However, at this moment, this mother did not respond or pay attention. Because she was dying!
I also somewhat understand the Lord Jesus' attitude toward His mother.
"Why were you searching for me?” he asked. “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:49)
In facing His mother, He could respond so bluntly. Could it be that even the closest relationships must take a back seat when one is about to return to the Father's house?
Father must feel the same. Now, the most important thing for you is no longer me. You have another calling, guiding you to your inner depths, toward heaven—to return to the Father's house.
Since you, like the Lord, have "resolutely set out for Jerusalem" (Luke 9:51), everything else falls to the periphery of your attention. What you need to do is simply focus on responding to the Father’s call, moving toward a different light, a different life.
In this regard, Father, you are clearly ahead of me. Throughout the entire journey of death, I have been constantly informed about the stages you are in: terminal stage, transitional stage, actively dying... Haven’t you always known?
We are evidently walking profoundly different paths. You are waving goodbye to this life, "resolutely set out for Jerusalem." And I must continue in this life, experiencing the pain of losing you, then relying on God, gradually struggling to move forward.
So, naturally, you are more prepared than I am. I, on the other hand, feel like I have just been thrust into the waters of death, constantly choking.
Watching you in those final days, lying there with your eyes closed, unresponsive to calls, only breathing heavily. I imagined that dying was a strenuous task requiring all your effort. Though you seemed peaceful with your eyes closed, internally, it must have been tumultuous.
If I constantly tried to grab your attention, would it distract you?
Your life story often intertwined with mine. In my childhood, you actively nurtured me into a lady, teaching me how to carry myself. During my teenage years, you took me to art and dance exhibitions you didn't fully understand, just to cultivate my temperament. The night before my wedding, you had a private talk with Yong Hao, teaching him how to “deposit” goodness in marriage. Though you had no theoretical knowledge of marriage counseling, your life experiences aligned with the theories. On your golden wedding anniversary, you shared your secret to a lasting marriage—“Love is patient,” symbolized by a wall hanging you gave me. At seventy, you advised on maintaining health and lifestyle in retirement. At eighty, you reassured me that since I loved reading and writing, I wouldn't struggle with boredom in old age, while Yong Hao should develop hobbies as he aged. This guidance continued until dementia took over.
Yet, your life was still centered around me, and I became your main source of joy and laughter.
Now, as you embarked on your journey towards death, your story no longer involved me. Your story truly—no longer—involved—me; it was solely between you and the Heavenly Father.
It was my turn to bless you and see you off. So, I practiced "letting go and saying goodbye." Whenever you briefly opened your eyes or kept them closed for long periods, I kissed your broad forehead and bid you farewell. You were like a child I had cared for over four years, always expressing joy and warmth to me.
Once, when the nurse and Yong Hao couldn't persuade you to bathe, you sat there stubbornly despite being undressed. Yong Hao called for help, and as soon as I touched your hand, without a word, you got up and went to the shower. Your cooperation surprised me. Had you surrendered so much to me in love, granting me such honor?
Was this the child I now had to let go?
Finally, your blood pressure began to drop. In the dark waters of death, I gently pushed your small boat, then pushed again… I swam behind…the distance between us growing, watching you slowly drift to the other side…
Doesn't this feel familiar? Anyone who has given birth knows it feels like labor. I was like your midwife, helping you be born into eternity on the other side.
Every birth is a miracle, full of solemnity and mystery. So is death. On the other side, your loving mother waited, and a pair of loving arms—the Lord Jesus—welcomed you with open arms…
In such solemnity and mystery, I could only feel awe.
Once, my son, who studied psychology, texted me: "Are you ready?"
I replied: "One can never truly be ready for this."
But that morning, as I washed, I asked myself: "Are you ready?"
So, I kissed your forehead one last time, this time truly meaning it. You must have known because that day, you left us…
A hymn says: "The place of full surrender is near to God's heart."
That morning, I entrusted you into His embrace because He answered my prayers, allowing you to gently enter the good night.
Thank you, God, and thank you, for giving me the gift of a father-daughter relationship, and for letting me accompany you in such a peaceful way as you went home, walked toward God, and entered into glory.
This farewell has become essential preparation for me when it’s my turn to find you. Thank you. Even in your very last chapter of life, you were still demonstrating with your own life how a person ages, dies, and returns to the Father's house.
Once, I thought that after you left, I would become a true orphan in this world. But now, I truly understand that in eternity, I already have both a father and a mother waiting for me to come home.
Yes, once, I had various imaginations and fears about death. But after experiencing it firsthand, I know that God has always been walking with us—
I am filled with gratitude and thankfulness.
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