Lamenting the Questions Death Didn't Answer

Dad's death ended the responsibilities of caregiving, but not the questions.

Photo by Thomas Koukas on Unsplash

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“The secret things belong to the Lord our God” ~ Deuteronomy 29:29

My dad died on May 24.

I knew the day would come. We had been living in the shadow of Alzheimer’s disease for years. I had read the books. Learned the stages. Prepared myself as best I could for the inevitable.

And still, I wasn’t ready.

The image of that morning is etched into my mind. The sound of his breathing was loud and labored, his chest rattling with congestion. I thought it was pneumonia. I thought there was still a chance he could pull through.

I didn’t know I was listening to the death rattle.

I didn’t know death was already standing at the door.

Maybe not knowing was a mercy. Maybe I would have fallen apart had I understood what was happening. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to help him at all.

Instead, I spent two hours doing what I had done for months.

Administering medications.

Watching.

Waiting.

Trying to help.

I stroked his head and told him he was okay. I told him he wasn’t alone. I told him help was coming.

The hospice nurse arrived. Minutes later, the EMTs. I wanted them to administer oxygen. We didn’t have that on-hand. Perhaps that would calm Dad’s breathing down long enough to let the medications take effect.

The hospice nurse lowered the head of the bed and turned Dad onto his side. Within minutes, his breathing calmed.

And then he was gone.

Now I find myself replaying those moments over and over.

Did he hear me?

Did he know I was there?

Was he scared?

Was he ready?

Were his parents waiting for him?

The questions come uninvited and linger long after the house has gone quiet.

What I’ve discovered is you can spend years bracing for an outcome and still be completely unprepared when it arrives. Every day since that Sunday, I’ve second-guessed myself.

Should I have recognized the signs sooner?

Could I have done something differently?

Did I give the right medications?

Did I wait too long?

Did I do enough?

Alongside the questions comes regret.

I regret the times I was impatient.

The moments I felt overwhelmed.

The days I wished it would all be over.

Because once it’s over, there’s no going back.

No do-over.

No second chance.

No opportunity to sit beside Dad one more time and say the things I wish I’d said.

The months of caregiving, medications, schedules, caregivers, and responsibilities end with astonishing suddenness. One moment your entire life revolves around caring for someone. The next, there is silence.

A room sits empty.

The applesauce and spoon are no longer needed.

No caregiver arrives for a shift.

No one needs medications.

No one needs to be tucked in for the night.

The routines that once exhausted me disappeared.

And in their place is a void.

A silence so loud it echoes.

People often speak about closure as though it arrives neatly at the end of a life.

That was not my experience.

There was no neat ending.

No beautiful bow tying everything together.

There was confusion.

Exhaustion.

Love.

Regret.

Questions.

And grief.

So much grief.

I would like to say caregiving was beautiful and rewarding every day.

It wasn’t.

Much of it was relentless watching, waiting, anticipating, and responding.

It was heavy.

It was exhausting.

It stretched me beyond what I thought I could endure.

And now that it's over, I miss even the things that once felt burdensome.

Grief is strange that way.

It softens memories and magnifies love.

There is another uncertainty I carry too.

I know what I believe about eternity.

My father believed differently.

He remained deeply connected to his Jewish heritage and unconvinced by the faith that sustains me.

And so alongside my grief sits another question I cannot answer.

Where is he now?

I’ve searched for certainty and found only mystery.

In the end, I’m left with the same choice I’ve faced throughout this entire journey—trust.

Not trust in my understanding.

Not trust in my ability to make sense of what happened.

But trust in the character of God.

The God who loves my father more than I ever could.

The God who knows every corner of a human heart.

The God who sees the full story when I can only see a single page.

I don’t know the end of my father’s story.

But I know the One who does.

And for now, that’s where I rest.

Not in certainty.

But in trust.

Not in answers.

But in the goodness of God.