It was 10 p.m. on a cold, rainy February in 2021. I sat alone on the sofa in my 92-year-old father’s living room, eyes glued to Dad’s chest, which rose and fell to the rhythm of the boxy gray oxygen concentrator at his side. Soon, his hospice nurse would arrive. Soon, I would wake him to say goodnight, to rest and pray and prepare myself for whatever tomorrow might bring. Soon, I would assure my father I would return early the next morning.
I reflected on a day that could not have gone better. With family, friends and his minister by his side for the first time in 343 days of pandemic isolation, Dad was himself again. Stories, laughter and a bounty of love revived life-giving joy, my father’s signature gift. Between unexpected guests, a visit with his grandson and phone calls to nieces and nephews, Dad would close his eyes and drift off, gathering strength for the next jubilant wave.
Once the last guest had departed, Dad relaxed against his pillows, happily reminiscing about the day and long-overdue conversations with loved ones. His minister prayed as Dad drifted into a sound sleep. With my father mostly settled for the night, my husband went home while I waited for the hospice nurse.
Sudden movement jerked me from the edge of sleep.
My father was sitting up in his hospital bed, attempting to swing his legs over the rails. I launched myself across the room, barely reaching his side before his feet touched the floor, his body held upright between the rails of the bed, the mattress and me. He pushed up hard, trying to stand, something he hadn’t attempted in weeks, and he locked me into an embrace. Fear rocketed through me. I couldn’t release him without risking us both.
In his final attempt at independence, Dad turned toward me for the first time. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. I reached for the urinal bottle. His body stiffened. I looked into his face, praying for connection. His eyes looked beyond me, over my shoulder, into the distance.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Dad’s best friend, Fran, a retired physician who lived downstairs. Within minutes, Fran walked through the door. He placed his hands on my father’s shoulders, looked into his eyes, firmly told him to sit down and asked me to leave the room. When I returned, my father lay on the bed, relaxed and in quiet conversation with his friend, who soon said his goodbyes and left.
Dad’s hospice nurse arrived minutes later and began my father’s bedtime routine of medications, encouraging me to go home and get some rest. My father and I briefly discussed the day and how much fun we had. Then, he turned to me and said, “Never forget how much I love you.”
Early the next morning, the nurse called to tell me that Dad had awakened around five a.m., reached toward the heavens as he called my mother’s name and then passed away.
While grieving, I rushed into the shower, tears mixing with the water rolling down my face. Suddenly, I heard my father’s voice filling my head, instructing, demanding. I was afraid and exhilarated, rushing to find a pen and paper, to capture his wisdom before it disappeared forever.
The following poem is his final benediction to me:
Do not look for illumination in my
lifeless face
It is not there
It was never there
It was always all around you
If you look closely, you will know
The light of me
Is in the stars
Is in the sun’s warmth on your face
Is inside of you
As you look up
At the trembling leaves on the trees
At the moon’s light in the midnight blue sky
Know that I am there
Do not try to keep me here
Away from what I am
Do not preserve this shell of me
That was never who I really was
It will only remind you
Of an illusion that is lost
That is lost
An illusion that obscures the truth
Of who and what I am
Of what I have always been
Of what you are
Shed what is not true
Love what your heart knows
I am the wind
The rain
The galaxies spinning time
Beyond your sight
Your breath
I am the love you clearly saw
In my blue gaze
And in the smiles of your babies
Illusion disappears
See me clearly now
Love is who I am
Know who you are
