My father was
shy, a man of few words, yet he fabricated a make-believe language, one he
invented himself. Nonsensical, silly and fun, it was a constant in our lives—a
way that he expressed himself and the emotions that seemed difficult for him to
show.
Dad wasn’t completely comfortable in crowds; he didn’t
have any friends that he met on a regular basis. He chose mostly to immerse
himself in a special world of his outdoor flowerbeds, working with his hands, and being with family. He began to restore antique furniture and build miniature dollhouses
when he retired. When I visited my parent’s home, Dad would walk me around his
little gardens. We would admire the glory of nature together—roses, pansies,
petunias, butterflies and birds. He would share his latest projects in a truly
humble fashion, lovingly showing me the smallest details, reserving this
special time we had together using the silly words of his made up vocabulary to
name everything.
None of us were called by our real names, even the
family pets, for Dad even had his special code words for each family member,
friends, and cousins. My son Matt was known as Ray, my brother, as Boy, Mom was
always Barnett, my husband Jim was Peppy, and I was little Tenya. It was as if
a secret society—one that Dad was the founder--permitted entrance as his way of
letting you know you were welcome in his world. Friends knew that Dad liked
them if they were given an unusual name.
Dad had a particular saying, however, when faced
with a barrage of unexpected health bills, or when a particular project he
worked on, wasn’t turning out as expected: “What a nightmare!” he’d say, though
he said it with a chuckle, as if trying to diffuse the situation. ‘Nightmare’
became the code word in our family for anything we weren’t happy about.
A robust, healthy man, Dad learned that he had
congestive heart failure in his late sixties. Several blockages were found, and
Dad had to undergo serious surgery to correct them. A sac of fluid encased his
heart due to his heavy smoking. The outlook was a bit grim—not the usual type
of bypass surgery. Yet Dad came through that particular nightmare and subsequent rehabilitation better than expected.
Years later,
another nightmare crept up in the form of my mother’s dementia. Our family
began to notice the small changes at first. She began to repeat stories, she
forgot simple tasks. Then as time went on, Mom’s whole world changed. She
experienced health issues and lost a part of who she was. My father’s words
became more powerful than ever to me. He began an early morning ritual of
calling before Mom would awaken. It was during those precious moments that we
could commiserate about my mother’s failing mind. We made lighthearted
conversation and solved some of the serious issues if only for a short time.
For me, the
dementia brought back frightening moments from my childhood—my mother’s mental
illness. Her
hospital visits had been long, and there were days when I wasn’t sure she would
return to us. It was in those moments that my father’s soft-spoken words had
soothed and given me hope as a little girl. And it was in our new journey with
my mother that Dad would once again step into the role of protector and hero
with quiet words of faith and goodness.
He patiently watched the same movies over and over
with my mother. He bought her favorite foods and took her for long drives to
nearby places she enjoyed. I never saw him lose his temper with her, and much
like the time in my youth, this quiet, good man handled our situation with
grace and courage.
Two years ago I noticed that Dad’s morning phone
calls were becoming infrequent. When we did talk, he seemed agitated and spoke
of more ‘nightmarish’ incidents as if truly complaining about them for the
first time. He seemed to lose his smile, his sense of humor. Even the silly
vocabulary that had been such a big part of our world fell by the wayside. None
of us knew it at the time, but my father had gallbladder issues that would
eventually land him in the hospital.
In August of 2016, my father was told that he needed
emergency surgery. We weren’t sure if he had ignored the symptoms in his care
for Mom, or if it happened quickly. His body became septic. The outlook was
grim. Dad was now eighty-five years old and his heart had become weakened.
I sat with him alone the morning while the doctor
had a serious conversation with us. They weren’t sure he would be able to survive
the surgery. Dad looked at me when the doctor left the room and said, “What a
nightmare, huh?”
My brave father chose to give the surgery a try.
That night as he was being wheeled away he had something to say to each family
member in turn. His last words to me were, “Thanks for everything.” But later I
would find out that these weren’t truly the last words I would ever hear from
my father.
Though he made it through surgery, Dad couldn’t
breathe on his own. He was placed on a ventilator and given medication to keep
him comfortable. Weeks passed with no change until I arrived at the hospital
early one morning.
Something had been nagging at me. We had all noticed
that Dad’s health was failing, that there hadn’t been any improvement. I knew
that I should say something important to my father on that day. Dad had always
been there for all of us and he had spent his life dedicated to others. I knew
he deserved to be at peace. Though he hadn’t been conscious, I felt that he
would be able to hear me as I talked with him that morning. I wanted to be able to let him go. To tell him it was okay to leave us. With tears streaming down my face, I arrived at the
hospital. He actually was much worse. The nurses told me that it would be a day
of decisions. Nothing else could be done. His kidneys and organs were failing.
I called for my brother and Mom to be there. Friends came to support us on a
most difficult day.
Each of us took our time to say goodbye to him. I
had been prepared, but now I wasn’t quite ready to let go. This was truly it.
The end of Dad’s life. I glanced around the room at the faces of friends and family,
so glad for their comforting presence when I sensed a presence of another kind.
Surrounding my father’s bed, almost like an out-of-focus camera lens, were four
tall stately beings: One at the head, one at the foot, and one on either side.
I realized they weren’t clearly visible, it was as if I could feel, more than
see them. A sense of awe overcame me. They were beautiful, majestic. I wanted
to cry out and share the moment with everyone else in the room. Were they
angels sent to guide my father home?
Visitors sent from Heaven to greet Dad on the journey he would soon
take? This incredible glimpse I was given had to be a true gift that only could
have come from my Heavenly Father. I kept the moment to myself. Peace enveloped
me then; a sense of well-being, knowledge that Dad would be in good hands—the
best hands. I was able to leave the room, able to let go.
Though others
stayed behind as they took Dad off life support, I could not. I went downstairs
to a small chapel in the hospital but it was too dark, too quiet for me there.
The sun had been shining brightly outside and I decided that I would spend
Dad’s last moments walking outdoors.
A friend who stayed in the room told me she would
call me when my father passed. I found a bench and sat upon it, lifting my face
to the warming rays of the sun. Birds chirped happily in the surrounding trees.
All was quiet, until . . .
I heard my father’s voice, clear as a bell. No
mistaking the slight chuckle, the tone of what was said. “The nightmare’s
over.”
Exactly at that moment my friend texted me. Where are you? She asked. Why, I asked, is he gone? Yes, she
said, very peacefully. I knew that
God had allowed another miracle! For me to hear my father’s words as he went
off to glory. To let me know with our special phrase that he was leaving, but
for me to be happy for him.
A few months later I had a very powerful dream. In
it, my father came to me. He looked young and handsome. He said to me, “Kar,
here in Heaven, everything glows, even the people.” I remember feeling as if my
heart would burst from happiness at seeing him. During the dream, I confessed
how worried I was about Mom. He simply said, “Don’t worry.” When he wanted to
tell me a secret about Heaven, I awoke, for I felt it wasn’t time for me to
know.
Throughout my life I’d always dreaded saying goodbye
to my parents. Our family was so close. I was sure I would never be able to
handle it. Though he left us, Dad’s words remained with me and got me through;
the ones that were silly and made me laugh, the comforting ones which had
always given me hope, and the parting words spoken secretly to me.
We lost Mom only nine months later. Though it wasn’t
easy saying goodbye so soon after losing Dad, it helped to know he was waiting
for her on the other side.
