Work Text:
It started with a text message.
Dad had been on hospice for 6 months at that point. A life of untreated depression combined with diabetes and kidney failure in a lethal way.
I was sitting in church, having just gotten off stage after singing with the worship team. I picked up my phone and saw a text from my mom, sent to all of my siblings. Dad was still with us, but seemed to have taken a turn.
I could feel sweat gathering under my arms, along my hairline.
I immediately shot up, and I could feel the pastor’s eyes on me as I fled to the church’s kitchenette in the back of the sanctuary. One of the other pastors was in there, and he did a very good job of pretending not to notice me falling apart. At least, until the pastor part of him kicked in and he asked if I was okay.
I was not.
After giving me a hug, a tissue to wipe my tears, and praying with me, he left me to call my boss and make arrangements for me to miss work the next day. My boss was very understanding, immediately saying that she didn’t want to see me for days. After hanging up with her, I emailed my choir director that I would be missing rehearsal the following day.
I finished out the church service with the worship team, pushing down the swell of emotion in my throat that tried to close it during the final songs. After, one of the other singers asked me what was going on.
I told her that my dad was dying. I didn’t know how right I was.
I made it back to my apartment, threw together an overnight bag, and set off for my childhood home. I texted my family as I was leaving, saying that I hoped I would make it in time. Mom told me I would.
I felt no dread on the drive. I’d made it hundreds of times. A few friends, who had been told about the situation, called and kept me company as I drove through miles of corn fields. I figured I would go to Dad’s facility, hold his hand for a bit, then go to my mom’s house.
When I hit the outskirts of my hometown, Mom called. She asked me where I was, and I told her. She seemed calm and collected (but, then again, she always does). She told me to come to Dad’s nursing home instead of going home, because she was already there. I didn’t think anything of the change in plans, hung up with her, and called my friend back.
A few minutes later, my brother called and asked if I was the one driving behind him. I was so engrossed in my conversation with my friend that I didn’t notice who I was tailing. I laughed and said yes, and he told me to follow behind him to his house to pick up his wife, and we could go visit Dad together.
Again, I thought nothing of this. God protecting me from it one last time.
I laughed with my brother as I followed him, made jokes. He gave nothing away. He should get an Oscar.
When my brother and I pulled into his driveway, he got out of his car and walked toward me, arms out for a hug. This was a bit of a change in character for him - my brother is not one for physical affection - but I figured that it had been a stressful day. Only once his arms were around me, bands of iron around my shoulder blades-
“Mom called me; Dad’s gone.”
The guttural noise I let out scared the birds in his yard away. I fisted my hands in the back of his shirt, still sweaty from the bike ride he’d just finished. My head was pounding with the force of my sobs.
A lighter set of arms around my shoulders - my brother’s wife. She heard my cries through the walls of the house. She held brother and sister together as we fell apart.
My brother’s words - he went in his sleep, Mom was with him, he wasn’t in pain.
Lord, please. This is too much.
I texted my boss, my friends. I didn’t respond to any of their texts after that.
The three of us climbed back into my car, my sister in law driving. I don’t remember what we talked about, just that we turned back for their dog, because he was part of the family too. He deserved to get to say goodbye.
I tried to wave them ahead of me when we got there; told them I would sign us in and meet them at Dad’s room. I wanted to pretend for a little while longer. Pretend that I still had a Dad who might get better. Might meet his grandkids or walk me down the aisle.
My brother and his wife waited. They wanted to walk in together, as a family.
I’m not proud of the first thing I said to my mom.
The nursing home had put an isolation precautions placard on his door. Probably as a reminder for people not to enter. I pushed the door open.
The first thing that I saw was his face. Normally so full of life, even towards the end, when he didn’t talk much. I got my red, full cheeks from him.
Dad’s face was pale. Almost yellow. Bloodless lips gaped open, eyes slightly sunken, hair damp.
My mom and eldest brother were sitting under the window, staring with eyes that were not seeing.
“You said I would make it.”
Her face crumpled. She hugged me as I cried, her three dogs - true nursing home celebrities - trying to vie for my attention.
We got situated around Dad’s bed. There weren’t enough chairs, so my brother sat down with the dogs. There was a cart with snacks. I hadn’t eaten in 12 hours; I grabbed a bottle of water.
We didn’t do much talking. A family friend texted me a picture of his dog, asked me what I was up to. He didn’t know. He felt bad about that, later.
My eldest brother, a pastor himself, gave Dad posthumous last rites. He was holding it together a lot better than I was. He said it was because he watched the facility staff wash Dad’s body. To him, that felt like closure.
My dad had always been a man of contradictions, and his stature was no exception. Stick-like limbs met a rotund torso. I remember teasing him, saying that I was surprised his skinny ankles could hold him up.
He looked more frail that day. More than he ever had before. Was it because he truly was? Or was death clouding my vision? Or, more likely - was death wiping away the clouds, allowing me to see him how he really was.
The funeral home came after a few hours. The man was very respectful, gave Dad all of the honor and dignity that he could. But I still had to watch as he zipped my dad into a vinyl bag. No amount of pretty patterns or soft fabric changes that fact.
We didn’t dawdle too much after that. My eldest brother left first, said that he wanted to kiss his wife and hug his daughters.
I didn’t realize the strength of the smell in Dad’s room until we left. It wasn’t him, it was too early for that. But the stench of depression, stale sweat, and tears was a heaviness I didn’t notice was there until it receded.
My sister and law and I went to go pick up dinner, with plans to meet at Mom’s house. She told me, as we were waiting for the food, that she had a lot of hugs stored up, and I only needed to say the word.
Dinner was a fairly quiet affair, at least for us. Mom, ever task oriented, demanded we help pick out Dad’s funeral outfit. A suit that might fit, a cross from his collection, one of his seemingly endless piano ties. My brother wasn’t much help; I think the idea of picking out an outfit felt too final for him. It hadn’t even been 6 hours, after all.
I had just turned part of my brain off.
After my brother and his wife left, Mom and I got ready for bed. I asked if I could sleep with her. I was surprised when she said yes. I would sleep with her that entire week. I think it’s the only thing that got me through.
I remember being surprised, the next day at the funeral home, that my mom didn’t have a plan. I half expected her to pull out a three ring binder, a book with annotations in the margins. But she was as lost as the rest of us. That night we combed through thousands of photos to make into a slideshow.
I had to go back to my apartment on Wednesday. I didn’t pack enough underwear, or funeral clothes. I briefly showed my face at work to pick up my laptop. I’ve never gotten so many hugs in a single day.
That night, my brother and I recorded a song to play at his funeral. We considered doing it live, like Dad wanted, but decided it was a bad idea. That was our compromise.
Dad’s funeral was on a day he would’ve loved when he was alive. Cold and rainy. My eldest brother did the funeral. I still don’t know how. It was beautiful and terrible.
As awful as the week was, I didn’t want it to end. It ending meant an expectation for me to move on, to get back to the real world. Return to work, to an apartment that had never felt more empty. To a bed that didn’t have my mom and three pushy, spoiled dogs in it. To days that weren’t full of friends reaching out, lending a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on.
But that’s life I guess. Or, rather - that’s death.
I can only pray that I don’t have to confront another for a long, long time.