My Father

My father died today at 5:23pm.

I arrived here on Sunday, Father's Day, and seemed to have his last burst of energy that night, interacting somewhat with company, although not so much with me. That night, he got out of bed one last time to go to the bathroom--which he did not--and then returned. Ever since then, he was non-communicative and his breathing labored and gurgling.

For the past two days he's been pretty much unconscious. Yesterday, his body lay nearly still and his eyes were closed. His limbs were cool and limp. My mother slept next to him and I slept on the floor beside them.

This morning, my mother woke me up and told me that he was snapping his fingers, something he never did in his life, and that his eyes were open. I became excited. I wanted to see a last glimpse of the man he'd really been--strong, stubborn, resilient. I also wanted to talk to him and know that he understood the things I had to say. I really don't feel that I got here in time to tell him all of the things I wished he'd known.

But all he did was lay back down. His eyes remained open but glazed and unseeing. Occasionally he would involunarily jerk his body and groan while breathing out. Was he in pain? We could not tell, but I would cry hoping he wasn't. We constantly held his hands and spoke to him. I said some things, but couldn't bring myself to say others. We struggled to think of things we could do to make him more comfortable, even once moistening his lips and mouth with his much-beloved Coca-Cola, but nothing really seemed to make any difference, to him, or to us.

Once during the day, he moved both of his arms over and whether involuntarily or not, he grabbed my mother's hand and arm and gripped them.

There were no changes this afternoon and my mother became panicky. I was not sure how much more she could take. She felt sad, powerless, and exhausted. It seemed as though the trauma of this final year and a half would never end. We told him numerous times that we loved him and would take care of each other and that he could go, but he persisted.

Later, at the end of her rope, just wanting to know something, do something, my mother called his nurse from hospice and she came to the house. His nurse, Nurse Gentile, was the calmest, most gentle person I have ever met. The hospice workers are angels who walk among us. She moved him to take pressure off his left side and gave him some more medication to ease his breathing. She also told him twice that he could go.

After she left, I went back in the room. My mother and I, used to his presence and feeling that he'd been cared for, were talking lightheartedly about when she met him and then we were talking about how two of our cats were acting like nurses to him, staying with him and standing guard the past few days. All of a sudden, I turned and realized he was no longer breathing.

It was so quiet. I cannot tell you how calm and peaceful everything suddenly felt, It was like the breaths that we'd been holding so long were finally safe to let out. I felt relieved for my mother and for my father--"allah yirhamo" as my friend Bobby said. Never in pain again.

Good night, my father.

In my way, I loved you.