The Holding Room

Dreams are the guiding words of the soul.

~Carl Jung

I pulled my car into the familiar driveway like I’d done a thousand times before. As I stepped out of the car, I glanced over at the mature maple in the middle of the yard. I’d watched that maple grow since it was just a sapling. Letting myself in, I climbed the hardwood stairs to find Mom fixated on the computer screen.

“Hi, Mom,” I said in my usual upbeat manner. My mood quickly shifted as she turned to face me. I could see in her eyes that something was terribly wrong.

“Dad has been diagnosed with a serious lung condition.” We sat together, dumbfounded, staring at the computer screen as we read the shocking words from Mom’s Internet search: progressive… hardening of lung tissue… incurable. No! It couldn’t be! Unbelief and denial set in despite the hard medical evidence.

Dad looked fine and seemed like his usual self, so I tried to ignore what I knew was coming. It went on like this for a year or so. The only hint of his dire condition came from occasional shortness of breath.

However, Dad had not put it out of his mind. At my father-in-law’s funeral, Dad turned to me as we stood at the gravesite and said, “I’m next.” His words sent a jolt through me. Unable to formulate a response, I pretended not to hear him.

A few months later, I froze when I heard Dad violently coughing. The sharp sound pierced my thick veil of denial.

At the end of a visit on one overcast morning, I stood at the front door to say goodbye. Dad shocked me by saying, “I want to talk about my demise.” Regretfully, I could not meet him in this place of terrible truth and death. I mumbled something placid, dismissive and falsely upbeat like, “Don’t say that, Dad. You are doing great.” He had dared to speak the unspeakable. I refused to allow it in.

Soon after, in hushed tones, my mother shared grim stats with me. Extremely low oxygen levels, more coughing, decreased stamina, increased shortness of breath. And then, the undeniable delivery of dark green oxygen tanks accompanied by long, plastic tubes, his new lifeline.

His symptoms spoke the plain, painful truth: Dad was dying.

But still, I found ways to push it away. I busied myself with chores. I floated through life in a numb state. And I avoided visiting him.

I frequently drove past my parents’ house in my travels around town. As I passed by, I’d think to myself, I really should stop in and visit Dad. But a stronger force often convinced me to wait until another day. On occasion, teetering with indecision, I’d park across the street and sit in my car. My belly sick with dread, I’d ask myself, Do I have the courage to face him today? I would quickly come up with excuses to put off the visit and find myself driving away.

And then I had a dream.

I was sitting in a small, plain “holding room” across the street from my parents’ house. The room was filled with people who were crying in grief about Dad. I felt their heartache as it mirrored my own. I sat together with them, crying and crying.

Later, I imagined myself back in the dream, sitting alongside the crying people. A well of grief from inside became unlocked. With these difficult feelings emerging came a clear realization: It was time to get out of the holding room, face these feelings and go be with my dad.

This dream shifted me. It opened me up to the depths of despair and pain that I’d been working so hard to push away. And so, I began visiting Dad regularly. No longer did I dismiss his words. I sat with him and listened as he spoke of getting his things “in order.” He wanted to make sure my mother would be taken care of — a new roof for the house, a new car, a list of repairs and more.

During one of our visits, Dad looked me in the eye and told me how much our relationship meant to him. Time paused briefly as I met his eyes and gratefully absorbed his words.

At the end of another visit, we stood to hug goodbye. The words “I love you” slipped out of my mouth as we embraced. Although we had never been in the habit of saying this to each other, Dad immediately replied, “I love you, too.” A threshold was crossed for both of us that day. And once crossed, we always finished a visit or a phone conversation with those heartfelt words.

During a break at work one day, my step quickened as I excitedly proceeded down the school hallway toward my office space. My parents were traveling home from a trip, and I’d be seeing them soon! I plopped down on the swivel chair and reached for my phone. Immediately, the space around me began to close in. Multiple missed calls. Repeated texts that read: “Call me right away!” Heart pounding wildly, I rushed back into the hallway and dialed my husband. Gazing out a small, unclean window, I heard his shocking words. “Your father just died. I am so sorry.”

In that moment, I lost track of place and time. I immediately began screaming out “NO, NO!” as tears of anguish overwhelmed me. Hearing my cries, a co-worker ushered me into a nearby “holding room” away from the hallway of classrooms. She sat with me as I telephoned Mom. Her voice shaking, Mom explained that Dad had died at a rest stop on their trip home from the beach. Dragging his oxygen tank behind him, Dad had found his way to a bench next to a newly planted tree. He sat to catch his breath. My mom was waiting in the car and watching in shock as she saw him keel over on the bench. She rushed to help him as people gathered around shouting, “Call 911!” It was a chaotic, traumatic scene. He died right there on the bench.

In the week after my father’s death, I visited my mother. Stepping out of the car, I paused and stood next to the empty space in the middle of the yard. The faithful maple of my childhood had recently fallen and been removed. Staring at the circle of wood chips, I felt tugs of grief upon grief. I stood and reflected upon Dad’s and my precious visits together over the last year — visits that likely would not have taken place if not for the dream of the “holding room.” Thankfully, the dream had cut through my haze of denial and procrastination, urging me to be with my dad. And when I thought back to our last conversation, I felt a rush of gratitude as I remembered our parting words to each other: “I love you.”

— Kat Samworth —