Sunday, December 20, 2009

December 20, 2009 - Sunday Morning

Dear Dad,

I saw you last night at the hospital, and when I walked into your room, you were sitting in the dark, alone, trying to read.  You did not realize you could turn a light on and see better.

I turned on the lights, then we talked a bit.  Your voice was slower, more deliberate than ever before.

Your meal for the evening came, and you told me you had no appetite all day and were just weak.  I helped you, I cut the food into manageable pieces, and made sure your shakey hands did not spill your drink.

It was hard, yet I felt honored.

As my heart broke to see the man once so strong, so intelligent, reduced to a whisper of his former self, I realized I am the one that is here for you, I am with you at the end.

My father, I cried when I left you.  I wish I had been a better son, but again - I know those days are long gone and we are here now, with me standing for you, helping you as the nights grow longer and winter sets in.

The wind felt cold last night as I walked to my vehicle.  My wife and I were silent as we drove away.

What can you say at times like this?

Today, the doctor called and said you will not be released, things have taken a turn for the worse.

She said when she arrived at your room, you were talking on the phone and nobody was on the other end of the connection.  You were bloated and had to be catheterized, as you were not emptying your bladder.  She said you might not ever go home again.

By the time I got to the hospital, you were resting, and you looked so bad, so weak, so pitiful.  It was hard to see you.  Your meal for the evening was in front of you and you were asleep.

I woke you, and asked how you were, you said "tired."

Once again, I cut up the food, and prepared it so you could eat, but when the nurse tried to feed you, you told her it had no taste. You were eye-balling the pie and said the pie looked good!

You were moved to be closer to the nurses station, they want to keep an eye on you tonight.

When we were alone, you said, "This could..." and you fell asleep.

This could...

Dare I complete the sentence? 

The nurse woke you and asked you where you were, you did not know.  She asked you what month it was, you did not know.  She asked you what special day was coming, and you said, "hopefully, when I get to go home."

That's right.

It will be a special day when you get to go home.

I have a picture of you, just a boy, taken over 65 years ago.  Sitting on your bicycle, holding your dog.  It was one of your favorite pictures, you loved that dog.  I think about you as a little boy, and soon, the joy of being with your family will return.  Just like a little boy, you will be greeted by your mother and father and once again, you will be home.

It will be a special day.

Good night, Dad - I hope to see you tomorrow, but if not - we are okay, you did a good job..

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