Jean has passed.
Many of you knew this was coming, and we appreciate your prayers, but that does not make the moment any easier.
Today began with an ordinary obligation that had already been rescheduled and could not be moved again. I had a four-hour physical an hour and a half from home. By the time I got home, took the dogs outside, fed them, and finally sat down, I remembered the promise I had made to Jean: that I would call and check in on her.
So I called Dad.
His phone picked up, but at first all I heard was breathing.
“Hello?” I asked.
Then my father weakly said, “Hello.”
I think I knew something had happened before I asked, but I asked anyway.
“Are you okay?”
He said, “No.”
And my heart dropped.
Dad had stepped away for just a few minutes. When he came back inside, Jean had passed. She was no longer breathing and was unresponsive. Hospice had just left after telling him she likely would not last through the afternoon.
I had called at the exact moment he was realizing she was gone. He told me I was the first to know, and I could tell that meant something to him. In that awful moment, he was not completely alone. I was there on the other end of the phone.
I tried to ease his concerns. I told Dad that many people seem to pass that way. They wait until the room is quiet, or until the person they love steps away for just a moment. My mom was like that too.
Then came that small, painful hope that maybe she was not gone yet. He thought he felt a weak pulse. I told him that whatever was happening, if there was anything he still needed to say to her, he should say it now.
That is one of those moments where words feel too small. You want to comfort someone you love, but you also know that nothing you say can undo what just happened.
Dad needed to call hospice and Jean’s family. I began relaying the news to my siblings and to Dad’s siblings. Family began calling family, each of us doing what we could from where we were.
Dad lives in an area where cell service doesn’t reach for miles, so my message didn’t reach my sister and her family immediately. They had given Dad some time alone after hospice broke the news to him. They were about to leave for a new location when her husband saw my message and directed them back home without explaining why.
Hospice had arrived by the time my sister returned. A funeral home was called. Jean’s granddaughter arrived shortly afterward.
After that, we all started doing what families do in moments like this. We tried to take as much of the burden off Dad as we could. We began talking through who could visit, who could stay, and when people could be there with him. I offered to have Dad stay with me for a few days, but he declined. I can’t fix a broken heart, but I felt if I could get him out of the house, there would be fewer things to remind him of the pain he’s going through. Perhaps later he will reconsider.
There are arrangements to make, decisions that suddenly appear in front of you, and practical things that still have to be handled. Dad will visit the funeral home tomorrow, and someone needs to go with him. Even something as ordinary as making sure his phone keeps working after a provider change suddenly matters, because communication matters more than ever right now.
That is the strange cruelty of grief. Someone deeply loved is gone, and yet the world keeps handing you phone calls, paperwork, schedules, and errands.
My heart aches for Dad.
I know I am involved in a lot of things in my community, and there are places I would normally be and responsibilities I would normally try to keep. If not by me, then who? But right now, family comes first. I may need to step back from some things for a little while, and I know people will understand.
Please keep Dad, Jean’s family, and all of us in your prayers.
Rest in peace, Jean.
