What we talk about when we don’t talk about dying - essay

by Julee Balko

They say that blackbirds, robins, and wrens are the first birds to sing in the morning. I can tell you that a robin sang every morning for two weeks as my dad was dying. I don’t know if the bird was waiting for us, or we were waiting for the bird. But I’d open the window with the early sun and let in the bird song. And without fail, a robin perched at the edge of the deck would serenade us.

I’d smile and say, “the birds are singing for you today dad.”  And then I’d throw in a snarky comment about the chubby squirrels who were munching happily at the bird feeder.

My dad would smile back. We smiled a lot. Because to not smile meant we were letting death win. And there was too much living to be done in our final time together.

Many people asked me at the funeral if my dad had told me that was what he wanted – to be celebrated, for me to speak, for the heartbreakingly beautiful slideshow that let picture after picture of happiness and adventure show much he loved each grandchild. I gave them the honest answer, “we never talked about death or funerals in his final days.”

Instead, he held my hand more than he’s ever held my hand in my life. He held it strong, not weakly. Like if his hands could communicate they’d tell me he was holding on to me beyond whatever comes next.

When I was little I joked my dad had gorilla hands. They were huge, strong and capable of anything. Sometimes they’d hold on to me too tight, like when he was teaching me to swing a bat. But truth be told, I did develop a pretty awesome softball swing. Sometimes those hands didn’t hold me tight enough – when life got me down and I couldn’t trust that he’d understand.

But in those final days, I’d slide my hand in his and let it sit there. Thankful for its strength. Thankful for the connection that let our mouths be quiet. Our hands did the talking. Our hands did the loving. It was a powerful bond. Sometimes his eyes looked scared and I’d squeeze his hand a few times like I was spelling something out in Morse code. He’d squeeze my hand back a few times and I’d smile. A secret code of over 42 years of being his daughter. Every beat a reminder of love, pain, happiness, and loss. Our whole world embraced between our fingertips.

We did talk with our mouths too. We joked a lot. He told me he was proud of me. He told me sometimes I piss people off because I seem untouchable with my feelings. He told me my mom was crazy at times. All true.

We spent a lot of time staring out at his garden. Every time someone would bring flowers to the house, I’d sneak out and “plant” them in their vase behind some tall grass so it’d look like flowers had bloomed. My dad would awake from his nap and smile at the tulips or red daisies that had sprung up out of nowhere. He was so pleased with this simple gesture of adding color to his view. And he would let me know that. He’d surround me with his words of love and gratefulness. He was filling me full because he knew every day he was becoming less full of his life.

Even as I knew his week was ending, we still managed a few laughs. Sleep overtook him more and more. I played the radio for him. And one time out of nowhere he sang the chorus of his favorite song and he made me laugh so hard. One time the song came on and he didn’t sing. And his silence made tears run down my face.  

There was no robin on his final day. Not one bird came to sing. I announced it to the sky and him. The sun did not come out. The squirrels had broken his bird feeder. Symbolically, it laid smashed in pieces on the ground. It was raining hard. I looked at my dad and I knew. “This is your day dad.” The birds knew it. The clouds knew it. And my heart knew.

Maybe that’s why I woke up early just to slip my hand in his. Just to sit and be his daughter one last time together. It felt like Christmas morning – but the gift was my dad. He was still there for a few more moments. I let our hands talk about my childhood softball games and coaching, that year he came to all my tennis matches, the art museums, our trip to Bilbao, the French restaurant and ballet that he took only me to when I was twelve. There were so many memories etched in my skin and his. And in the quiet of his death and our hands, there was nothing louder than our love.