Something in me wondered when I took this picture if it would be the last one. There was no real reason to believe it would be. The resident had told us there was less than a one percent chance of fatality during the procedure. Still, if life had taught me one thing, and taught me well, it is that percentages don’t mean a thing.
There came a distinct moment between his hospital room and a conference room when I knew. When life becomes overwhelming, sometimes focusing on the mundane becomes a survival mechanism. I remember thinking how obnoxiously white everything was—the wall, the floor, the lights of the hallway.
As a team member walked in front of me, I asked repeatedly, “What is happening with my father?” The reply was always a timid, “Let’s go to the conference room.”
A moment of clarity came crashing. Deliberate. Merciless. True.
This is how my father dies.
A family man to the end, we were blessed to all be beside him and holding his hands as the monitors went to flat.
Since he left, Wesley, my son, joined him. My father always had a special place in his heart for Wesley. Everyone did. He was that kind of kid. Still reeling with anguish over losing my son, I can smile knowing Grandpa met him on the other side with a “Hey there, Scooter,” and open arms.
I have buried a husband, a father, and a son. Grieving each of those losses was different because each relationship was unique. All were deep. All were extraordinarily significant. All are deeply missed.
Losing my father left me feeling vulnerable in the world in a way I had never known. He was my protector from the moment I was born. No matter the distance, I always knew my dad would be there when I needed him. And he physically was, until this day three years ago.
Death does not diminish love, not even a little.
The world was instantaneously perilous, and the potential dangers revealed by a vague but overwhelming feeling of exposure. It wasn’t that I knew my father could keep the darkness away. Rather, he was the one who would join me in it. He would help me rebuild after it. I believed him each time he said, “It is going to be okay.”
Though we expect to lose our parents, having that foreknowledge does not offer much, if any, solace when the time actually comes. Even if we get to have them into the age deemed a long life, the pain is intense. The loss is significant. Having more time does not make it any less so.
It never seems to be long enough, and we are rarely ready for the long pause before we see them again.
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