Growing up, I demanded so much of my father. I expected perfection, and when I didn't get it, I got angry. So angry. Only in his final days am I beginning to realize that my suffering was entirely of my own creation. The streams of tears are immense.
I've been reading Being with Dying by Joan Halifax and she has this to say: "Ultimately, to help others, we must relate with kindness toward our own rage, helplessness, and frustration, our doubt, bitterness, and fear. We must get in touch with the obstacles that prevent us from understanding and caring. Through accepting our own suffering, we can begin to be with others in a more open, kind, and understanding way. We learn not to reject difficult situations or people. Rather, we meet them exactly where they are ... We cannot prevent death from happening, or make it easier for the dying to accept it. We can learn to meet it and find mercy in it."