His hand in mine....Grief for a parent
I just wanted to reset his phone to factory settings.
A practical little job. Years after his death, I turned on my father's Samsung.
There was his screen background. A painting he had made himself. To be honest, it had never made that much of an impression on me.
But he was extremely proud of it.
And suddenly I was sitting there again. In his world, among the things he had considered important. A world that had simply stopped one day, while the phone had been left lying there.
Should I read his WhatsApp messages? Or delete everything immediately?
One press of the button and the temptation was gone.
I wanted to take a look anyway. But WhatsApp wouldn't open easily. Something to do with updates, I suspect. Technology decided for me.
I could go by his photos. And in his phone case, I found a handwritten note.
Words about his illness. The diagnosis, the treatment.
That handwriting.
How familiar handwriting can be. His notes on the table, appointments on yellow Post-its. A message he slipped into his shirt pocket.
I was immediately back in that spring.
We negotiated for five years
“I don’t want any weird stuff, you know. I don’t need all those treatments.”
That was Dad.
I tried to reassure him. Let's assume another five years, I said. Time to live. Time to be together.
But really nothing more, mind you. By then I’ll be eighty-three. Can I finally have it then?
I had to laugh. There we sat, negotiating his lifespan.
It didn't last five years.
His illness lasted from April until the end of June.
What changed between us
I was always incredibly fond of my father. However, our relationship wasn't always easy.
As a child, I had sometimes needed more closeness and protection than I found with him. Even when I was an adult, I could still feel how much I had wanted that from him.
I still find it difficult to write it down like this. Out of love and respect, I want to handle his memory with care. As if naming my grief would diminish how much I loved him.
For me, that is also part of grief: still needing recognition for what you have missed, while at the same time cherishing what was between you.
Still, I genuinely enjoyed visiting him. I had my own little room there. He watched tennis and I went about my business. I enjoyed the familiarity. To me, there was a home in it.
In the last year of his life, 'something' softened between us. He looked at me more often with a gentle gaze. Perhaps he never knew how much pain he eased by doing so.
We had both gone through breakups and were sad about them in our own way. We spent weekends together. A closeness developed that I was very happy with.
Not long after that, he turned out to be ill.
He said he needed me. That felt strange for a moment and brought me back to my childhood. But my heart opened up on its own. I held him in my arms and promised that I would take care of him. He didn't have to worry about that.
I wanted to protect him and fought for his care. He could be so disarming: sometimes a little boy in the guise of a vain older man.
His hand in mine
One morning, it became too much for me.
He couldn't bear the hospital visits anymore. The dependence, the waiting, the wheelchair he preferred not to sit in. He was in pain and tired.
I was scared.
Afraid of losing him, especially now that we had found each other in a different way. That morning I cried and got angry. I wanted to keep him with me so badly.
After that, we drove to the hospital.
We held hands the whole way.
When I had to shift gears, I took his hand along with it.
Of everything that happened during those months, that is one of the memories I hold closest to me.
Later came the moment when he indicated that he could no longer continue.
Then I had to listen to something I didn't want myself yet. He couldn't do it anymore, but waited for my permission.
“It’s okay, Dad. You can go.”
Wipe his phone
With that phone in my hand, I felt how much sense of home he had carried inside.
The loss had become more bearable over the years. And yet, tears were now streaming down my cheeks. Over a screen background. A note. That familiar handwriting.
So close, and yet I could not touch him.
“Oh Dad, I miss you. I love you,” I said out loud.
I looked out the window.
In my mind's eye, I saw him standing there. His cognac-colored suede coat, his purple sweater, the light blue shirt underneath. His walking stick, which had belonged to his mother.
He smiled. As if to say: go ahead. It's fine.
I took a deep breath and reset the phone to factory settings.
The screen lit up. The device began to execute its command.
And I stayed seated for a little while longer.
When love and loss have a complicated history
When you lose a parent, you take the entire bond with you in your grief. The familiarity, the beautiful memories, but also the disappointments and the moments when you could not reach each other.
With my father, something else was added to that: the grief over the closeness we had only found late in life. How happy I had been with that. And how I wished I had had more time for it. And for myself, I lost the last place that had felt like home.
Perhaps you recognize this. You miss someone and at the same time notice anger or old grief resurfacing. Or you cherish a loving farewell, while past experiences still hurt.
You don't have to give all your memories the same color.
You can be grateful for what was and sad for what was missing. You can love someone without having to justify everything. And a difficult past does not make your loss any less sincere.
To me, the tenderness of that final period is precious. I also know that not everyone receives such a rapprochement or farewell. Perhaps, in your case, many words remained unspoken. That, too, deserves space.
What does the loss touch you about?
A phone, a scent, handwriting, or a casual remark can suddenly bring someone very close. Such a moment need not become a judgment on how well you are coping with the loss.
Perhaps it helps to ask yourself at such a moment:
What exactly am I missing? The person, our familiarity, what we still wanted to do — or something I have always continued to long for?
There can be multiple answers.
In my guidance, there is space to explore those different sides: the loss itself, the history of the relationship, and what you need today. Without having to first choose whether your bond was good or difficult.
My father could touch me with his intensity. He could also move me. I missed things with him, and I miss him.
It is all part of our bond.
His phone is dead by now.
## The Memory of His Hand in Mine I still remember how he held my hand.
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