Movies that tackle grief hit close to home

Spoiler Alert: this post reveals plot details of the Oscar-nominated movies Hugo and The Descendants.

Sometimes grief hits you at the most inconvenient time. Like when you’re sitting in a theater watching a movie with hundreds of other people. This happened to me recently after watching Hugo and The Descendants. Both movies, while very different, deal with the loss of a loved one in a way that resonated with me because of my dad’s recent death.

In the first film, the main character, 12-year-old Hugo Cabret, yearns to connect with his father through a broken automaton – a mechanical man. Hugo believes it has a message from his father, if he can only fix it. Despite many obstacles, he’s determined to connect the pieces of this mystery because it is, as he says, the only thing he has left of his father. It’s a sweet film but not overly sentimental.

I read recently Brian Selznick’s explanation about his book on which the movie is based. Selznick’s dad died shortly before he began writing the book. Initially, he didn’t want the father in the story to die so he kept the character alive. Ultimately, however, Selznick realized that the father’s death and the boy’s love for his dad would make the story more meaningful and powerful.

Indeed. As I watched the scenes of Hugo talking about his father, I found myself thinking about my dad and how much I missed him. I could feel the boy’s pain and understand the longing to reconnect with his dad. In Hugo’s case, the automaton and the help he receives from people he meets along the way, make that connection possible. In my own, I’m often reminded of my dad through the things I encounter, as I wrote about in a recent blog post – an old baseball cap, people I run into and notes from my visits with him.

In The Descendants, George Clooney’s character, Matt King, deals with a wife who is comatose in the hospital. The situation is complicated by a hurtful secret he learns toward the beginning of the movie. In what is arguably the most powerful scene of the film, an emotional and tearful Clooney says goodbye to the wife – despite what happened between them.

But it’s the final scene of the film that had the biggest impact on me. King and his daughters are in a canoe releasing his wife’s ashes into the sea. There was closure. Finality. An opportunity to say to goodbye for good.

We haven’t had that chance yet. We haven’t buried my dad’s ashes. Despite saying goodbye to him in the funeral home, at a rosary and during mass, I don’t feel I’ve had closure.

I sobbed uncontrollably as I watched that last scene in The Descendants. On the one hand, I was sad about the wife’s fate and her family’s grief, but also aware that my own loss still leaves much to be resolved.

Movies are often an escape for viewers – a nice departure from reality and a way to forget about your own worries. But I think great films stir your soul and leave you thinking about your own life. It’s tough to forget those kinds of films.

Thanksgiving without Dad

The seat at the end of the long wooden dining table near my kitchen is a frequent reminder of many family Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. It was where Dad always sat. It was his place because it was easier to wheel him there.

Last year, however, Dad wasn’t able to join us during the holidays. A few months before, our family made the difficult decision to move him to a nursing home.

Thanksgiving Day 2010 at Dad's nursing home.

Not seeing him in his usual spot at Thanksgiving last year felt strange and made me sad, but thankfully we’d seen him earlier that day.

My mom, husband and I joined him in the nursing home dining room as he ate his lunch. He had a healthy appetite and didn’t need much help using utensils. We joked with him and took photos to let him know he was still very much a part of the festivities.

This holiday season Dad’s absence is more profound. There was no visit to the nursing home. No checking in on him, no joking around, no “we’ll see you later.”

Dad died five months ago this week – in his sleep on a Thursday morning at the nursing home. When I woke that morning, I noticed numerous missed calls from my brother and an urgent message to call him. The moment I had dreaded for so long had arrived.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. Yet I’ve struggled with what to say about his death.

Reminders of Dad are everywhere – on torn pieces of paper, in notebooks, in files on my laptop and on the back of receipts in my purse. There are notes to refill his prescriptions, sketches of my conversations with him, scenes from the nursing home, ideas for future blog posts and reminders to talk to the nursing home staff about the pressing issue of the day.

I catch myself telling friends or relatives something about my parents in the present tense and have to correct myself.

For weeks after Dad died, I would glance at the blue bag in the trunk of my car. Inside was the Mavericks Championship T-shirt I bought him that he wore on Father’s Day – the last time I saw him alive. The shirt was a little too tight on him, so my mom asked me to exchange it for a larger size. After he died, I couldn’t bring myself to take it out of the car. When I finally did, it brought a flurry of memories from that day, as well as tears.

For a while, I kept running into an elderly man at work, on the elevator and in the cafeteria. He walks slowly and doesn’t say much. He looks nothing like my dad, but something about him stuck with me. Maybe it’s a reminder of the fragility of life, the desire for independence.

Two months and three days after my dad’s death, my father-in-law died. I witnessed my husband experiencing the same emotions I went through. Sitting in a funeral home again listening to my husband and his family make arrangements brought back the still raw emotions that I hadn’t yet been able to process. But having each other there helped both of us.

Death has been on our minds a lot since then. At some inevitable point, we all will be the man at work or the nursing home patient waiting for a loved one to stop by. If we’re lucky.

Sometimes we are too obsessed with our own lives to notice the elderly. Only when you grow older do you cultivate a respect for longevity in this world, especially when confronted with parents who are nearing the end of their lives.

Thank you, Dad, for that lesson.

Mom revives New Year’s Eve traditions

Mom's delicious buñuelos

The phone rang a couple of minutes after midnight. It was Mom calling to say “Happy New Year!” The call was a welcome surprise. Mom staying up late on New Year’s Eve? It’s been awhile since she’s done that.

In fact, in recent years, numerous traditions have faded away, including the annual call at midnight to my parents on this holiday. I don’t remember exactly when the tradition started. But I do remember countless calls to them, often while attending New Year’s Eve parties or simply hanging out with friends.

There was the call I made from a hotel in Fort Worth where some college friends and I attended a party. Another time, I called from the streets of Delray Beach, Florida as fireworks lit the sky. After I got married, my husband would often join me in shouting “Happy New Year” into the phone.

It didn’t matter if the place from where I was calling was noisy, if the call lasted only a few seconds or if it was obvious I’d had one too many glasses of champagne. What mattered was that I kept the tradition alive. But after my dad had a stroke, he could no longer stay up till midnight. My mom, tired and run down from taking care of him, stopped staying up late, too.

Another New Year’s Eve tradition my mom stopped taking part in: the annual making of buñuelos, a Mexican pastry that is essentially fried dough with cinnamon and brown sugar on top (I’ll post my mom’s recipe soon). As I child, I watched my mom prepare the batter and dip the dough in the frying pan. I often helped out by sprinkling the topping over the buñuelos. It was a time-consuming process, but she enjoyed making these every year. So, it was sad when she told me a few years ago that she no longer had the energy to make them.

Last night was different. During our conversation, I told Mom I was surprised she had managed to stay up past midnight. She explained she’d decided to make buñuelos. She said she didn’t think they turned out that great, but I’m sure they did. I’ll get to sample some later today.

After making the buñuelos, Mom received a call from a friend who wanted to stop by to drop off some food. The friend left after 11 p.m. My mom sounded happy she’d had a visitor. At that point, she said she figured she might as well watch the countdown to midnight on television (like she used to do) and give me a ring.

I’m glad she did.

Baseball with Dad

Note: Yesterday, Texas Rangers fans were surprised and disappointed when they learned that pitcher Cliff Lee signed with the Philadelphia Phillies. But many fans were also relieved he didn’t choose the Yankees. It’s the kind of news my dad would have followed closely and that we would have discussed. I wrote the following piece after the Rangers lost the World Series earlier this year. I never got around to posting it but thought now would be a good time.

Dad watching the Texas Rangers and New York Yankees in Game 5 of the American League Championship Series. The Rangers ended up losing 7-2, but would go on to beat the Yankees two nights later in Game 6, earning a trip to the World Series for the first time.

The Rangers didn’t win the World Series, but that’s okay. Years from now, I’ll still remember the time they beat the New York Yankees to earn their first trip to the championship series. It was a bittersweet night.

Anticipating a victory for the Rangers, I headed to the nursing home where my dad now lives. I took a Rangers baseball cap for him to wear.

Dad was in bed and not completely focused on the game despite my constant reminders of what the Rangers had a chance to finally accomplish. This wasn’t just about getting to the World Series. It was about beating the team that had previously defeated them – each of the three times they’d appeared in the playoffs.

At times, it was frustrating to watch. I wanted my dad to feel the same sense of excitement and pride as me in seeing his team in its biggest moment: Game 6 of the American League Championship Series. It was what my dad, a die-hard fan, had always longed for.

Why, after all those years, did the Rangers finally have a real shot at the World Series when he could not appreciate it? It would have been different had dementia not set in, I thought.

Dad dozed off a couple of times but managed to stay awake for most of the game. As his eyes focused on the TV screen, I hoped that maybe some part of him – if only for a minute – understood the magnitude of what we were watching.

I sat at the foot of his bed and continued to update him on the plays, the score and what was at stake. I cheered and yelled, hoping it might stir something inside of him.

Instead, what stirred were the emotions of a daughter who longed to have her old dad back. It conjured up memories of my childhood, sitting in the car with Dad, listening to the Rangers on the radio as we waited for Mom to finish grocery shopping. It brought back memories of the long drive we made from Texas to Florida, listening to a playoff game in a rented U-haul truck. And it reminded me of the time I took Dad to his first Rangers spring training game in Port Charlotte, making sure we snagged at least a couple of autographs.

“Mira, Daddy,” I said to him as Alex Rodriguez stood at the plate, two strikes in. “This could be it.”

And so it was. Closer Neftali Feliz threw the final pitch that struck out A-Rod.

“Ganaron, Daddy!” They won!” I shouted. But the rejoicing quickly gave way to tears.

I looked at Dad, who remained awake and continued to stare at the television screen. I didn’t want him to see me cry, so I turned away and sat quietly watching the celebration.

I imagined the moment under different circumstances – Dad with a huge smile on his face, raising his fist in the air and clapping.

Later that night as I talked to my husband about the experience, he encouraged me by pointing out that I probably would always regret not being with my dad on that historic night if I’d chosen to stay home. He’s right.

I managed to watch a few more games with my dad. That the Rangers ultimately didn’t win the championship was beside the point. Their appearance in the playoffs and World Series gave me the opportunity to share something special with him. 

Getting Dad out of bed and helping him eat

As I walked down the long corridor in my dad’s nursing home, I wondered which Dad I would find. Would he be happy to see me? Would he smile or crack a joke? Would he engage me in conversation, ask me questions like how Mom is doing or if it’s rained lately? Or would he sit in his chair unresponsive?

Dad was in bed, lying on one side asleep when I found him. The TV was on but not turned to the Dallas Cowboys game as would have been the case during Dad’s healthier days.

The sight of him in bed startled me. Dad is never in bed, except when he’s asleep at night. At home, even on days when he didn’t feel well, Dad always preferred to sit in his chair.

Dad woke up and saw me, but didn’t say much. I asked him if he wasn’t feeling well. He shook his head no. I learned later that his lower back was bothering him. I called my brother and told him. He sounded concerned, too. A few days before he’d found him in a similar state.

I asked an aide if someone could help me get him out of bed. He needs to get outside, feel the fresh air and the sun, I thought. After a couple of the aides transferred him to his wheelchair, I took him outside. He stared at the cars that passed by on the highway. Two other residents were sitting out there, too. One was asleep in her wheelchair. The other one mentioned she was hoping someone would come by to pick her up.