Friday morning came and I checked-in on my dad. His breathing was so peaceful and easy. He sounded like he was having the best sleep of his life, like he should be laying in the grass in the park on a late Sunday afternoon. I looked up at my sister who sat next to him and made a “wow, that’s great” face.
Since I was going to be there longer, I decided to mail out my rent check and pick up what I needed for the next few days. before leaving, I helped change my dad, reposition him, and gave him his medication. I hated leaving, but I knew I had to take care of these things if I was going to stay longer. Throughout this time I tried to stay with my dad as much as possible, so on those few occasions where I headed out I was antsy and anxious.
When I arrived home one of my sisters asked if I needed help. “No, I got it.” and I placed the bag of groceries on the kitchen table. I looked up to see my dad alone in the living room. “Why is he alone?” I thought. For the last two weeks someone has been by his side 24/7. Now he was there alone and it was so quiet. Too quiet. I quickly put the few cold items in the refrigerator and went to my dad’s side.
He seemed too still. I placed my hand on his chest, right above where his hands were folded. No movement. His mouth was open as I placed my hand under his nose. Nothing. “Dad. Dad…” I don’t know if it was a question or a statement, but I kept repeating “Dad” as I lightly shook him. No response. I looked down to see his belly sunken and his lips barely changing color.
I ran to my sister’s room to tell her dad wasn’t breathing. We stood next to him checking again to be sure. ” I swear” she said to me, “I checked on him 5 minutes ago, and he was breathing.” I ran to my other sister who was on the phone in another room, “Dad isn’t breathing” I told her. All three of us stood by him, each of us crying and trying to understand what just happened. There wasn’t a moment he was alone, and the one time we all tended to our responsibilities, he left. I felt flashes of guilt, inadequacy, and stupidity at my decision to leave that morning.
“This is what he wanted” one sister said. “He had said that he wanted to die in his sleep and to be found gone.” I had to believe this was true in order to keep my guilt at bay. But most importantly, my dad was gone.
We called his brother and when he arrived, we prayed, gave our words of gratitude, and bathed and oiled my father’s body. My sister played a recording of my father re-telling a story from his childhood. My father was a great storyteller, and hearing his lovely voice brought me to tears. The reality hit hard, that I would never have conversations with him, ask him how to do something, or ask him to tell me about the time when…
I made a final prayer before the cremation service took his body from his home and suddenly, it all felt so void.