As your parents age, it doesn’t matter how far away they live. We all dread that telephone call telling us that something is wrong. The most dreaded one of all, however, is not that something is wrong, but that nothing will ever be wrong again. And everything will be wrong. Nothing will ever be the same, now that both parents are gone.

You know it’s that telephone call when the message on the answering machine is brief and factual: “Hi, this is your brother. Give me a call as soon as you can. I’m at Dad’s house.”

Dad’s been living alone these past five years since Mom passed away. He had a rough patch in ’02 with a botched aneurism repair and has recovered enough to be able to continue to live alone with his dog and his lady friend, Mary, visiting daily. He was getting pretty short of breath most of the time (he’d been a smoker all his life), but he always did his best to sound upbeat when we talked. In fact, I had called him just the Friday before, and he had asked about all of the kids and my husband. He expressed delight at my children’s current events, and my spouse’s recent accomplishments. And he threw in his heartfelt expression of pride at my own career path and business ownership, and told me that he loved me. Expressing these feelings had been unheard of for him until my mother became ill; he began then to make an effort to say he loved us and was proud of us, and it meant the world to all of his grown children to hear those sought-after words.

I wasn’t good at calling Dad often, just once in awhile, so I was very grateful to have talked to him recently. When I returned Gary’s call, and I heard the words I knew he was going to say, I didn’t feel any regret. Nor did I feel any sense of shock or outrage. When an older person dies, and especially when one has had the opportunity to prepare for their loss, it is a sorrowful and sobering experience. It is life altering, but it does not have to be debilitating or devastating. And so it was, for me, a moment of somber acceptance, sadness, and relief that my father had not had to suffer long or be in chronic pain, or had to spend one minute in a long term care facility.

Gary’s words were heart-wrenching, but the ensuing talk with my brother was comforting. He played the big brother role that he does so well. He has a soothing tone and a loving inflection as he describes how Dad started having pains on Monday night and called his friend, Mary, who called paramedics. The tests showed new bleeding from an aneurism in his aorta, again, and Daddy said, “Do not send me to Wichita. Do not send me to Topeka. Do not send me to Kansas City. Let me be.” The hospital called Gary, as his healthcare POA, to confirm that Dad, at 84, and in his current condition, was making an informed decision and Gary ensured them that he was. He was given comfort care and Gary was with him when he took his last breath. Gary told Daddy that he spoke for all of us when he said that we all loved him and that he was a good father to us. Dad squeezed Gary’s hand in acknowledgement, he said, but didn’t communicate much more before he quietly slipped away at about 1:30 in the afternoon.

That was about the time I was getting my hair colored. Mundane and ridiculous thoughts like that fill my head unbidden at times.

I didn’t cry as hard and painfully for my dad as I did for my mother. Maybe because I was closer, emotionally, to my mother and for a longer period of time in my life. It felt like the cord was being cut again when my mom died, like a physical pain. When I learned of my father’s passing, it was less physical, more ... spiritual in a way. It could be the fact that he was the last of my parents to die, therefore, I now have the orphan syndrome.

Don’t laugh. At age 50 (almost) I feel like an orphan. I can’t go home again. There’s no one to call at 1321 West Fifth Street, Chanute, Kansas. I can’t borrow money (not that I have since I was 20 or so). It’s an empty, strange feeling. It hits me at odd times during the day. In fact, it’s the sheer myriad of feelings that come and go that makes this grieving process so difficult and fascinating. I find myself in a kind of melancholy fog, with a desire to go within my deepest memories to make sense of the meaning of life. I turn off my usual “Rock Oldies” station to play actual cassette tapes of music from my youth -- my connection to my parents and their influence on my life.

My griefwork through this life changing event is having, also, a very physical component. On the morning of my father’s death I had a regularly scheduled checkup with my physician, a very good DO. I had been feeling very healthy. The one minor thing he noticed more than I, was a knot in my left shoulder/neck area. He mentioned I might want to make a follow-up appointment so that he could perform some osteopathic manipulation treatments. I decided to make the appointment, “just in case” it did get worse instead of better -- although my regular Tai Chi classes keep me in pretty good form.

From the moment I learned of Daddy’s death, that knot began to work on me. Maybe, because it was a weak part of my body to begin with, that’s where all the tension rushed to. The knot began to work its way all the way down my arm to my wrist, and all the way up my neck to my ear. Strangest thing. Grief works on you. You work on grief. That’s why they call it grief work.

Osteopathy can be a very effective method of treatment I’m finding, as this muscle knot is being very persistent. So can deep tissue massage. I am focusing on my health during this time of grieving, because muscles are not the only part of us that can be adversely effected. I know that going through the process of grief, and making sure that I am taking my vitamins, eating well, taking time for myself for sleep and writing, will keep me from suffering worse physical ailments than a sore neck.

I began treating myself to comedy in the next few days and weeks. My family liked to laugh; we loved Jerry Lewis and the Three Stooges, and other comedians of the 50s and 60s. My kids and I rented a comedy the other night. We made popcorn and fudge like my dad did. And we laughed. Experiencing pain, one might develop the desire to experience laughter.

Mother and I spend many a happy shopping day together for clothes and what-nots. It felt like she was with me when I found myself at target.com and ordered a new set of dishes and flatware. When the world gets you down, go shopping! Better than anti-depressants -- and sometimes less expensive!

Another way that I deal with grief appears to be home improvement. I tend to pick a project and delve into it, heart and soul. Last weekend, I began to envision more color in my kitchen. I couldn’t stop myself. I ran to Sherwin Williams and picked a bright red color to match the border colors, unscrewed the cabinet doors from their frames (thanks, Dad, for the cordless drill!), and began to scrub them clean with TSP. You don’t realize how dirty kitchen cabinet doors can get until you get them in the soapy water. A week later, I have bright cabinet door fronts that match my new dishes, and I’ve purged my cupboards of unused, mismatched objects. It’s a cleansing feeling, purging.

Past griefwork has included repainting my bathroom a bright yellow, and painting my bedroom a mellow, comforting blue. Colors can be very therapeutic.

Thankfully, spring weather and the promise of new life from the sleeping death of winter is helping to lift my spirits as well. The next thing I will throw my heart and soul into (besides writing, of course), will be my garden. It beckons to me.

So now comes the hardest part of all. Saying goodbye to my childhood home. I was born in the hospital across the street from 1321 West Fifth Street. The house was built the same year I was born. Dad had the same telephone number that I have used all my life to call home. The stuff of my family’s life is there, locked up, waiting for loving hands to touch them one more time as we disseminate.

It is a tense time, because, the phrase “You don’t know someone until you’ve shared an inheritance with them,” is going through all of our minds, unbidden.

There are stories of my father’s sisters, who fought over a dining room table until my father had to put it on the auction block. These stories are being told back and forth again, as we all promise we would never behave this way.

So, my brother and sisters and I have been conferring about the best way to celebrate our parents’ lives and help each other through this time of final gathering. My husband and boys will accompany me to Kansas for one last sibling reunion at the homestead. We will smell the smells of our youth, visit the haunts and hangouts, talk with old friends who knew me when I didn’t have to color my hair, and when I was much less sure of myself. And I will feel vulnerable, and strengthened, making my way through this next passage of life.

Debra Sorensen, MSW, LISW, CMC, is a professional care manager and owner of, Debra J. Sorensen & Associates Inc., a private geriatric care management company in Maumee, Ohio. She can be reached at 419-367-8835 or e-mail debra@professionalcareforyou.com.

Recommended Reading
For more information on the grieving process and how to help yourself or someone in grief, here are a few excellent resources:

• Beyond Grief: A Guide to Recovering From the Death of a Loved One,
  by C. Staudacher (1987)
• Grief's Courageous Journey: A Workbook,
  by S. Caplan and G. Lang (1995)
• How to Survive the Loss of a Love:
  Fifty-Eight Things to Do When There Is Nothing to Be Done,
  by M. Colgrove, H.H. Bloomfield, and P. McWilliams (1977)
• When Bad Things Happen to Good People,
  by H.S. Kushner (1981)

Debra Sorensen, MSW, LISW, CMC, is a professional care manager and owner of Debra J. Sorensen & Associates Inc., a private geriatric care management company serving Northwest Ohio and Southeast Michigan. She can be reached at 419-367-8835 or e-mail Debra@professionalcareforyou.com.