The day that
my father died, except for an hour or so for lunch, I was with him the whole
day. I knew things weren’t good and that
it wouldn’t be long, but I had no idea what the timeline was. I was numb and probably in disbelief. It was hard for me to wrap my head around
everything that the last few years had held for me and my family.
The pastors
that I work with had driven me down to Williamsburg and my wife met us at the
facility where dad had been. She brought
our daughter and stayed for a few hours.
After lunch, my fellow pastors left and I had the whole afternoon by
myself. I was expecting that someone
might come to visit, but I remained there by myself. I just continued to love on my father,
reading Scripture to him, singing songs over him, and assuring him that we
would be fine. He had done a fine job of
raising his two sons and he had fought long enough. He needed to hear that it was all right to
leave us.
Many times throughout
that afternoon, I cradled his head in my hands and kissed his head. I whispered that I loved him in his ear. I told him how I couldn’t have asked for a
better father. Having been on morphine
since that morning, I knew that his consciousness would most likely not return.
Taking a break
from reading, singing, and speaking, I decided to write in my journal. Little did I know how the words that I would
write and the prayer that I would utter would come true.
“It’s hard to
express how it feels to lose both of your parents before your 40th
birthday. I thought that I would have
had so much more time with them, but God had other plans. When Dad is gone, there will be a finality to
things that is seemingly unbearable. I
know God gives strength, but I am taking it moment by moment right now.
It’s so hard
because I feel like I’m reliving my life from 2 years ago. Just watching Dad simply breathing in his bed
is reminding me of Mom’s last days.
Lord, please take him quickly.”
It would seem
that God answered my prayer as Dad passed within hours of my writing. Part of me thought that I should have been
more careful of what I asked for, but then I realized that this was
better. I didn’t want him to die, but I
also didn’t want him to “live” a life like he had been living. In actuality, what he was experiencing could
hardly be called “living.”
One of my
prayers after my mom died and as my father’s health began to deteriorate was
that Dad not die alone. He felt so lost
and alone when he left Connecticut.
Losing Mom just pushed him further into that darkness and it was hard
for me to bear. With a full-time job, 3
kids and a family, seminary studies, and various other things happening in my
life, it was hard for me to spend as much time with Dad as I wanted. I did what I could, but even when I wasn’t
there, I couldn’t help but think about the sad picture in my mind of him being
in there all alone.
I know that
people die alone every day, but it seemed unbearable for me to think about that
happening to Dad. I couldn’t imagine one
of the nurses walking in and finding that he was gone and yet not knowing
exactly when he died. That seemed so
harsh, even though I knew it was possible.
But I held out hope that it wouldn’t happen.
When he
finally went, it was all so painfully familiar to me. Just as I had watched my mother’s neck for a
sign of a pulse, I watched my father take his final breaths, wondering if each
one would be the last one. When that
last breath came and went and I knew that he was gone, I simply sat there for a
minute. I don’t remember exactly what I
did, but it wouldn’t be a surprise to think that I might have prayed a prayer
of “thanks” to God. Like I said, it wasn’t
because I wanted Dad to die but because I didn’t want his suffering to
continue. Mom suffered for 6
months. Dad had suffered for far longer.
While there is
a sense of relief to me that his suffering is gone, the pain of dragging this
out is so fresh. It’s hard to let
go. It’s hard to break free of the
numbness that I feel. It’s hard to come
to grips with the reality that is before me.
Yes, time heals all wounds, but the scars never go away. They remain, reminding us of the pain that we
have experienced, calling out, sometimes screaming, to us not to forget how
they go there.
Right now, the
bandages of loved ones and friends have covered up those scars, at least
temporarily. Each day, I lift the
bandages to reveal what’s underneath.
Each day, I wish that I would lift the bandage and find that it has all
been just a dream, but the scars remain.
Each day, I wish that I could just make that one phone call, but
realizing that is impossible, I simply reach for my phone to listen to
voicemails that I have saved. Hearing
the words “I love you” from both my mom and dad in the form of a voicemail
recording will have to suffice for now.
In the
meantime, I press on. Life goes on,
people forget, but I refuse to do so.
Mom and Dad have left indelible marks on my life and the lives of so
many other people. I am a living legacy,
so may the mark that I leave be just as long-lasting as the ones left on me.
