Saying Goodbye
I remember his last days as if they transpired this week. I find myself back in that hospital room crowded with my brothers, my sister, my in laws, my nieces and nephews, my aunts and uncles, beloved pastors, on duty and off duty nurses who had become instant friends, and my precious mother. All were there to visit Dad, as he shared a story, debated political issues, told a useless yet interesting fact, gave unsolicited advice, or serenaded his audience with his song of the moment. He had experienced a rough week in his battle with lung disease. His breathing had grown more laborious; and for the first time in my life, I observed a weakening in the man I knew to be the real Superman. I hated it. I found myself angry and frustrated, confused and wanting to deny the reality that I was facing.
I had stepped out of the room to update my coworker and longtime friend, Kristie. Despite an early morning scare, Dad would be going home today. The doctor had signed the release for the third or fourth day in a row. He would be going home with the By-pap machine to help him breathe until the swelling in his lungs went down. The doctor was optimistic, "I believe he's headed toward recovery." His words gave us hope and encouragement, but Dad looked tired and weary. "Just pray, Kristie. We really need a miracle." my voice trembled. Without hesitation Kristie began, "Heavenly Father, this is Veronica's daddy, her daddy . . . " she stressed. Tears streamed down my face, and I desperately tried to stifle the sobs that rebelled against my failing efforts. I did not hear another word she said; my mind was transfixed on "Daddy." I managed to regain my composure enough to utter the words, "thank you" and "goodbye."
A quick trip to the nearest bathroom to check my nonexistent makeup, dry my tears, practice my everything's-great-in-the-world smile, and I would return to the room. Pushing the door open, I was greeted by the colorless face of my older brother, Tim. My eyes anxiously searched to meet his and discovered the undeniable mixture of pain and panic. "What?" I questioned. The nurse replied, "He's taken a turn for the worse. Talk to him. He can hear you, but he won't be able to respond. There's nothing more we can do." Questions and doubt flooded my mind, but I did not give voice to them. I went to his bedside and grasped his hand. It was cold and unresponsive. I could not talk, not even a whisper. Internally, I was shouting, "Open your eyes! Please, open your eyes!" I needed to see what color of blue they were. I couldn't remember. "Light blue – greyish blue – with flecks of darker blue – Right? Please, just open them one more time. I need to memorize them. I have to. I just have to. Please, Daddy. Please." There was no response, not even a flicker. For the first time in my life, Daddy was not moved by my tears. Oh, how I wanted him to say, "Sweetheart, everything's gonna be okay. Your daddy's here." Instead, there was only silence.
Soon, my other siblings began to arrive. Matthew, the youngest, was first. Uninhibited by our presence in the room, he spoke loudly and clearly. He showed no restraint and emotionally shared his love, respect, and sorrow with my father. I stifled my silent sobs and continued to shout internally. "Why can't I do that? Daddy, I love you too! Don't go! Don't leave me!"
Next, my sister, Alesia, and her family arrived. I gave her my spot at his side. Just as I had done, she took his hand, caressed it with her thumb, and sat there silently. I wondered if she too battled internally. I dared not ask.
Once my younger brother, Phil and his family arrived, there was little doubt about the emotion that would build. After all, Phil, being the most tenderhearted of all of us, had always possessed this inexplicable ability of making everyone in the family cry. I remembered how he sobbed uncontrollably when Ricky Shroeder's father died in the movie, The Champ. Even though that was ages ago, my fears were confirmed. His arrival marked the emotional climax. There was no controlling or silencing the internal groans. As a family we wept.
Then, it was as if the time of mourning began to transition into a perfect peace. The coldness of the hospital room seemed warmer now, almost inviting. The unity of my family, a testament to the remarkable man who lay in the bed in the midst of us and his beautiful bride at his side, was a lighthouse that offered refuge in this storm. Strength and comfort in knowing that Dad's battle was coming to a peaceful end were growing. Off duty nurses stopped by to "sit a moment" as if they were basking in the warmth that peace had to offer. Aunts and uncles visited and left comforted.
It was late. As time seemed to linger, we decided that some of us should get some rest; we would stay with Dad in shifts. Mom, Tim and I would take the first shift. The others each hugged Dad, told him they loved him, and left. Mom rested in a makeshift bed in the corner of the room. Tim and I sat silently on either side of the bed, each holding one of Dad's hands. Periodically, Tim would check Dad's oxygen level which continued to decline until it got to a point when it no longer registered. Tim and I silently counted the seconds between the gasps which were getting weaker and further apart. When the count reached fourteen, Tim leaned over and kissed Dad's left cheek and whispered, "I love you, Daddy." I kissed his right cheek and whispered in his ear. I quietly awakened Mom and told her that I thought he had stopped breathing. Then I called for the nurse. With one final exhale, he was gone. There were no more tears, only quiet words and gentle movement. The nurses were kind and tender, offering to give Dad a quick cleaning so that we could say goodbye. But we had already said our goodbyes. The nurse called us back into the room and said, "You know he has a smirk on his face, like he's smiling." He was. He had reason to smile. Daddy was right with God. His battle was finished, and so was mine. In place of the anger, the frustration, and the confusion was an overwhelming sense of peace and resolve. Reality was looking me in the face, and I accepted it. No longer would I battle with the words that I could not say. I had held Daddy's hand as he entered into the presence of God. I had kissed his cheek as he embraced his Creator. I had said goodbye with a whisper, "I love you, Daddy."
