Rome: probably my favorite city on Earth, if I had to choose only one. Our time here was emotional and bittersweet, but Rome’s beauty did what it could to try and ease the pain.
We planned the last month of our round-the-world trip to be mostly a family affair. We saved Italy and Austria for last, because we thought it would be comforting to see some of my relatives after being on the road all year, and because it would be a smooth transition back into the “Western world”. In addition, we wanted to spend our one-year wedding anniversary somewhere a bit more romantic than say, Hanoi, so we decided to fly from Hanoi to Rome, and my mom would meet us a few days after our anniversary and travel with us to Sardinia, Tuscany, Umbria, and Vienna for the rest of June. We found a wonderful, cosy apartment in an adorable neighborhood right near Castel Sant’Angelo and booked it for the week. I couldn’t wait to show Nick around Rome, spend time with my mom after not having seen her for a year, and eat tons of gelato.
Our first couple days in Rome were lovely: the weather was perfect, we did tons of walking, started checking things off the long list of food we wanted to eat (cheese, salumi, pasta, pizza!), did some sight-seeing, celebrated our anniversary, and generally lived la dolce vita.
However, after a few days I got the email I’ve been dreading to receive all year: my father’s health was quickly deteriorating, and this time, it looked like he was nearing the end of his life. My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s seven years ago, and suffice it to say those years have at times been very difficult, painful, and sad. I’ve watched him go from a strong, independent professor of art to a weak, frail person who could not do anything for himself and who could not recognize me anymore. My heart pounded as I read the emails from his caretakers and hospice team that had been sent while we’d been sleeping. I knew that this had been coming and could have happened at any time during our travels, but I still was not prepared. He was unresponsive and his body was shutting down,they told me, but he was not in pain. I knew there was nothing we could do for him but make sure he was comfortable and well taken care of, which thankfully the team at his assisted living home and hospice were doing a great job of. I knew we had to go home, but I was scared. I was scared to see what one more year of this awful disease had done to him, I was scared of what I knew was going to happen, and most of all, I was scared that this excruciating process would last longer than I could handle, and that we would fly home and spend days, or even weeks, by his bedside, waiting for the inevitable to happen. We had had false alarms before, and I knew from experience that I would not have been able to handle the waiting.
I was distraught, emotional, and unsure what to do. So I thought about what my father would tell me to do if he were still able to talk to me. He is Italian, and Italy is his favorite place in the world. We used to go there together when I was young, and he continued to visit Umbria (the region where he is from) every summer until he was no longer able to travel. In a way, being in Rome made me feel closer to him than I would have if I were sitting by his side in Washington, DC. I was in a place that he knew and loved, a place full of fond memories from his youth. I was eating the food he always used to cook for me when I was little, the food he hadn’t been able to enjoy in several years. I was seeing the sights that made him so proud of his culture and his heritage. It may sound strange, but in a way, I felt as though he was living vicariously through me and we were having these experiences together, one last time. This feeling of connection to him helped a bit to comfort me at times, but during other moments being in Italy made me even more emotional, knowing that my father had not been able to live his life to its fullest during the last years of his life. Nick and I knew there was nothing we could do but wait whether we were in Rome or in DC, so each evening, we checked in and discovered that his condition had not changed, and we made a decision as to whether we should stay another day. As long as we could keep ourselves distracted, perhaps staying in Rome a couple more days was the best thing to do. We took care of practical aspects of planning: I bought a dress for the funeral that I know he would have approved of (it was Italian after all); I reached out to his friends to let them know what was happening; I spoke to him in Italian over the phone, hoping that perhaps somehow hearing my words brought him some comfort. I thought he would have been happy to know I was in one of his favorite places during the last few days of his life.
My father passed away peacefully while we were flying home from Rome. I did not make it to him in time, but I was able to say goodbye to his beautiful homeland for him.