Godspeed

My dad passed away on January 20th at 10:40 A.M. Some days I might think about him a few times, other days I may not have even a conscious thought of him. Today is the kind of day where I am viscerally aware of the loss of him. The space he used to inhabit that is now empty. The physical space in the family room where his hospital bed was as well as the space inside of my heart. Yesterday I looked at photos of him a month before he died, days before he died, the night before he died, then after he was gone. I need these photos to remind me of what I shared with him those last months of his life, they are a testament to the moments that have changed me and formed the woman I am now.  Those final days are seared into my cells yet I find I cannot recall them exactly as they were. What I have are the photos, they tell his story because I do not want to forget it.

The night before he died, watching him and realizing he was finally, after so long, leaving. Sitting up with him, watching his increased breathing, the profuse sweating, feeling helpless to take away this difficulty that was his body trying to sustain itself for a few more hours. The profound sacredness of that night after my mother, exhausted, finally went to bed. After the hospice nurse came to assess him and to order the continuous care I realized I needed. Putting on the special music he loved that I had chosen for him to die to. Playing it hour after hour as I watched him slipping away. Sitting by my father’s bedside waiting, watching, praying for a gentle release, and knowing that sharing this last night with him was the most important thing I would ever do in my life. Night turned into morning. The sun came up. The nurse arrived and two and a half hours later he was gone. I have the photos to remind me of what happened, to show me that being able to say goodbye to my father was his final gift to me. Godspeed dad.