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I do the same to Kathy and Cindy when I call to tell them Dad is dying, and according to hospice, has perhaps only a week to live. I ask them to come as soon as possible.

Cindy says she’ll clear some things up at work and be on a plane early Friday morning, which is two days from now. She’ll rent a car so we don’t have to leave Dad to pick her up at the airport.

Kathy says she’ll get in her car first thing Friday and drive up. It’s a long drive, nine hours, so I suggest she take a flight and rent a car. She resists that idea, and I don’t argue. When I ask her to contact Laura and Sarah about coming, she agrees, but tells me not to expect her daughters to come on such short notice. Sheesh. As if I have any control over the timing.

As our conversation continues, David hears me defending my decisions, answering her questions and expressing my apologies for not calling sooner. “It’s just like he turned a sharp corner, Kathy. It’s been so quick.”

David motions for me to hand him the phone. I do, and he says to Kathy, “This conversation is over. You get your ass up here if you want to, but you do not ask my wife for one more explanation or apology. Got it?”

He listens for a moment and says, “Good. Now good night.” He hangs up the phone, looks at me, and shrugs. I smile.

I’ve asked Janet to give me the entire night with my dad. As she settles into the guest room, she thanks me, then elicits a promise I’ll call her if I need her.

David takes Nick out for the last time tonight, then gets him settled on the mat next to Dad. He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dad’s arm flops off the bed and his hand opens. Nick licks his hand and then lowers his weary head. I pick up Dad’s arm and tuck it under the covers before moving to the lift chair. David returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pulls up a chair and sets it next to mine. I gratefully accept the wine.

Although Dad seems to be deep in sleep, we know he may be able to hear us, so we talk about happy things, mostly about good times spent with Dad and Mother.

After about an hour, I tell David to go on up to bed. He kisses me and tells me he loves me. He puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “I love you, too, Joe.”

I’m alone with my thoughts now.

 

 

Many wonder if we’ll see our loved ones in the next life, whatever that life is. I don’t wonder. I had a glimpse of it when we went to Rome two months after Mother passed.

Our plane took off from Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport for an overnight flight. The sun sets later in Rome in May, around eight-thirty p.m., and as our plane ascended, I was captivated by the sunset outside my window. I kept the shade up and was turned in my seat, fascinated by the glow that emanated from the sky. There were bands of colors ranging from a deep blue-purple, to pink, to salmon, to deep orange. I continued watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, the colors of that spectrum disappearing one at a time.

As the sun winked out, a brilliant flash of green, lasting no more than a second, took my breath away. It wasn’t just the startling magnificence of the celestial dynamic that left me breathless; it was also the profession of love from Mother.

Mother’s eyes were a brilliant and unique shade of green, and throughout her life, so many had said to her, “You have the most beautiful eyes.” As beautiful as she was, her eyes were her most striking feature.

They were the same shade of green that I had just witnessed in the green flash. I told David, “Mother just winked at me. It was her loving farewell.” That’s what I felt in my soul, and it was something I could share with my soulmate, knowing he would hear in my voice the certainty of it, the veracity of it, and accept it. The gentle pressure of his hand and the look in his eyes confirmed that he did.

“Goodbye, Mother. I love you,” I’d whispered to the heavens above. In that moment, all the sorrow I had felt from her loss, all the guilt-riddled questions I had asked myself regarding “Was it enough?” in terms of caring for her, evaporated.

I understood then that I had given all I had to give—every single drop—in caring for her to her last breath, and she knew it. I was lying beside her when she took that last breath. I had reached out and touched her face and said, “Oh, Mother.”

Now I would watch over my father until he took his last breath. I don’t know why or what purpose there is in being the child who watches both parents pass out of this life, but I am deeply grateful for the privilege, even though it comes at a very steep price.