My father lived a good life. Most of his 87 years he worked to provide for his family while providing for others. He built things, and by doing so he helped build lives. He never thought as much, though; he simply went about his day, enjoying the work and the product he left behind.

He had a stroke 10 years ago. It was about the same time my wife and I moved permanently to Maine. Mom, of course, over those years that followed, did her utmost to give him a life embraced by the essentials amidst a secure sense that all would be OK. We as a family certainly did what we could to help, but Mom being Mom pushed back, reluctant to accept help. She knew best what needed to be done and would do so without any fanfare. But good feelings hardly ever last forever when life’s clock slows to a crawl and eventually stops.

My father died on July 31. Over those last 10 years he reclined mentally and physically to just that of a shadow of the man I saw create wonders out of wood, metal and concrete. Two years prior, Mom learned she too is suspectable to the unpredictable. It would be the trigger that threw the “switch” that is unknowingly automatic within all of us — the call to be a caregiver to a parent. For our family, both of my parents now needed hands-on support, limitless love and understanding.

Because of our upbringing — along with the myriad of life lessons we used to make faces at — our parents prepared us for this moment. They did their job by providing a home, security and happiness as best they knew how. Perfect? Far from it. But it was a life we all lived together for me and my brothers: 67 years of marriage, three sons and a home that saw pretty much all of it. The house holds it all because it was a workshop of sorts, holding tools and knowledge, embraced by good times, struggles, fortune by way of memorable moments and unrelenting love and commitment of a family giving its all to make it work.

Finances, medical appointments, bills getting paid, important documents being found and then secured, medications dispensed, groceries bought, healthy diet planned, observed and sometimes ignored for something sweet; a home with two floors becomes one, mementoes held within its walls become sacred as grab bars take hold.  Two living together all of that time suddenly becomes one. No one is ever prepared, and yet along with the sadness we gain strength knowing we did our best to see to the needs of the one who departs. That page of time may turn, but we remain steadfast in caring for the one who remains.

All of this care and love have the distinct ring of raising a child, and my parents did that three times. Now it’s our turn. We are at the head of the table as heads turn and eyes look up. Love and commitment are words that become flesh and blood in that moment. Responsibility weighs heavy, as it did raising a family. It is familiar territory made more real by the sunlight and shadows that float by, bringing clarity that we are here because our parents were always there for us.

The mirror of tomorrow reflects the days that will most assuredly come and with it that predictable acceptance of the unpredictable. We are never prepared for its arrival. We wave a hand at the shadows that arrive to blur our sight, try to dismiss and move along a day that is always there to follow any circumstance. Time heals they say, but then again, it also remembers.

As children of parents who were and still are in the twilight of life, we look to them and beyond, holding close a deep respect of that mantle of responsibility now in our hands. The lessons our parents taught us are crystal clear. The entire family moves together as one taking each day as it comes. Mom is in good hands just as Dad was and will be for eternity.

My Dad is somewhere in the ether I am certain, working and moving along a path of bright, shining memories amidst some regret. We all have regrets, because we are human. We can never wring out the last potential of possibility, because we are human. But I know he is in a better place, a healing place, a place that he will insist on mending to make better, building to make complete with both his hands and spirit because that is what he always did and will continue to do so. Godspeed, Dad.

© 2025 RJ Heller

Published: The Quoddy Tides, September 12, 2025