Both of my parents died last year less than a month apart. Most of the long distance relatives couldn't come back so soon for the second funeral.

 I am still given sympathy. People shake their heads and hug me and say they can't imagine how hard this must be. I thank them for their concern and assure them I am doing all right. What I rarely say is what I really feel: Happy. I know that sounds cold. So I don't say it. It takes more than a casual conversation to explain. 

Mom and Dad prized their independence and encouraged ours. So we all moved away. I always knew they were there if needed, but I tried not to need them. They tried not to need us either.

When it became clear they were struggling, I told them about a house next door to me that was for sale. "Too close" they said. But a year later they moved to my city and into an Assisted Living Facility five minutes away.

On the day they moved in, as I waited to greet the moving truck I tried to imagine how they would die. They were coming to the place that would be their last home and we all knew it. Every person living there moved  in knowing that.

I tried to prepare myself for what I had seen through friends' eyes...dementia, years of slow deteriation, incontinence, immobility, role reversals with the accompanying anger, depression, pain. Mother at one time wondered if they might move to Oregon where my brother lived. She thought they could legally commit suicide there. While we didn't want them to do that, I understood how it might be reassuring to have the control. Neither liked surprises.

But the end I imagined never came. Mom went unexpectently. Dad found her in her chair one morning. And Dad, who was in stage 4 cancer, made it clear with her gone he had no reason to live.  He stopped all treatments. Less than three weeks after her death, a massive stroke left him unable to speak. I was in charge of his medical care. I did what he wanted: No life sustaining treatments. No feeding tube. Make him comfortable. Once I tried to give him water. He clamped his mouth shut. 

In the four days that he lingered I was able to tell him how much I loved him and what he meant to me, and because he couldn't speak, he couldn't change the subject.

One afternoon I saw him reach out to air. "Mom is here, isn't she?" He managed to nod yes and tears streamed. In that moment I felt such a rush of joy for him it was too hard to contain. I was alone in the room so I laughed and danced around his bed. I hugged him as best I could and whispered, "Soon, Daddy, soon. You'll be going too."

By the time my brother from Oregon arrived I willingly let him take the vigil. Dad woke up a little before 3 AM. His breathing was labored. My brother read him the scientific explanation on how the body shuts down that was left by hospice. As a scientist he may have known that, but it seemed like the right thing to do. The message from our traveling brother to not try to wait for him if he wanted to go was relayed. My brother thanked him for being our father. Then he felt compelled to read a special Baha'i prayer for the departed. It has repeated phrases that are peaceful, calming and reassuring. Dad was agitated. As the prayer was recited his breathing slowed. On the last sentence of the prayer my father died.

We are all going to die. It is the one certainty of our lives. As deaths go, these were good deaths. That is why I am happy. And while I swore I would never become one of those people who think often of their impending death, I find myself hoping my children will find the joy in mine too, even if they never tell anyone.