Seeing my Dad ill was as natural to me as breathing, and although I’d grown accustomed to the countless hospital visits and emergency room trips, I never could get used to the possibility of him dying. It was something that I always worried about, but tried to convince myself that it could never happen. As crazy as it may seem, each time that my Dad came back from the brink of death, I started to believe more and more that he was invincible. I would find myself praying with much conviction, for God to continue to allow my Dad to live. Simply because I couldn’t bear to live my life without him. It never occurred to me that my Dad was holding on to life until he knew for certain that I was ready to let him go. My selfishness wouldn’t allow me to tune into the fact that my Dad was suffering greatly through his illness. I only knew that I wasn’t ready to lose him, but lose him I did, and I was devastated by his death. Especially the timing of it, only eighteen days before Christmas.
I suppose any date on the calendar would have been unacceptable for me, but Christmastime was an especially hard one to accept; mainly because my Dad enjoyed that holiday so much. He loved the production of it; decorating our house, readying it for the holiday. Each year he could be found dragging down countless boxes of decorations from the attic; the biggest box containing our Christmas tree. Every room would show some sign of Christmas approaching, even our front porch didn’t escape my Dad’s festive mood. Christmas wouldn’t have been Christmas without those big plastic “noel” candles displayed on either side of our front door. However, the part of decorating that my Dad loved the most was that of our Christmas tree. He would painstakingly arrange the branches to perfection and then place one ornament at a time, standing back to make certain that each one was placed in the ideal spot. Of course the tree was never complete until my Dad walked outside and viewed it through our big picture window, making certain that it looked as perfect from the street as it did from inside our house. Even the presents beneath the tree had to be arranged just so. Of course they never stayed that way because my Dad loved retrieving his packages time and again, shaking them and laughing as he tried guessing the contents. Much to everyone’s dismay, he was usually quite accurate in his guessing.
That year however, there would be no tree in my parent’s home and there would be no laughter from my Dad as he shook his Christmas presents. But I was unaware of any of that as I walked into his hospital room where he and I made small talk. We discussed what the hospital food was like, what program was on TV that night and Christmas presents. I don’t know why, but I told him that the family had gone together and bought him a remote control television that year, so he could change the channels from the comfort of his easy chair. Something that he’d never been able to do with his old console TV. He didn’t seem upset that I’d told him about his gift, but for the life of me I don’t know why I’d told him. It was not like me to ruin a surprise for anyone, especially my Dad. After all, surprising him at Christmas could easily have been considered one of my goals in life, so why did I tell him? As the television conversation came and went, and I decided that it was time to go, I told my Dad I’d return later that evening. He smiled in acknowledgement and then called me “daddy’s baby”. I lovingly rolled my eyes as I walked toward the door. How many times had I thought back on those final moments as I left that hospital room, me looking back at my Dad, hearing him say that he loved me and me replying the same? The smile on his face when I left that day seemed joyful. In hindsight, when I think of his smile, I don’t remember it being happy, but rather sad. Perhaps it was a goodbye smile. Was that the case? Had he known I wouldn’t return as I told him I would? I had planned to, but learned that he was going to have two other visitors that evening, so I decided to wait until the next morning, but that would be too late. But I knew none of that as I left my Dad’s room and exited the hospital. Walking in haste to the parking lot before turning back to face my Dad’s window, I waved blindly toward it. I knew that he’d be watching out that window, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew that he was returning my wave. Did he know that it was his final wave to me?
When I got home, I plugged in the lights that hung on my own Christmas tree. It was nowhere near as perfect as the trees I remembered from my childhood, but it was pretty nonetheless and I knew that my Dad would approve of it once he got the chance to see it, which would be as soon as he was released from the hospital. I would make certain of that. I smiled, imagining my Dad’s reaction to my tree. I had no doubt that he would start adjusting its branches and the ornaments that dangled beneath the lights before carefully inspecting the gifts that lay beneath, wondering if any belonged to him. As I stared at those packages, I found myself ashamed that I’d ruined the surprise of his television set. Had my heart sensed what my mind couldn’t accept?
The next morning, an early phone call sent me into a panic as I rushed to the hospital to be with my Dad. With family surrounding me, I watched my Dad being wheeled past us to the intensive care unit. I was unable to touch or speak with him. I could only watch helplessly as hospital staff rushed him past me, hearing the words “code blue” echo through the hallways. I knew what those words meant, that my Dad’s heart had stopped again. I watched fearfully as nurses and my Dad’s family doctor rushed into his room. Strong was my irrational belief that my Dad was invincible, and so I waited to hear that he was still alive. In waiting, I could hear my mind rehearsing the words I’d grown so accustomed to saying, “please God, don’t let him die, I’m not ready to let him go.”
Guarded relief washed over me as the doctor approached my family, announcing that they were able to resuscitate him, but that his condition was grave. “You’ll be okay Dad”, I tried convincing myself, “you have to be, I need you”. Those words rushed through my mind, momentarily giving me solace, until I heard the faint sound of someone moaning. Through a crack in my Dad’s hospital door, perhaps for the first time in my life, I actually heard his suffering. I’d seen signs of it throughout my childhood, but I was unable to grasp the severity of my Dad’s health problems. Somehow in my juvenile mind, I felt that if I ignored what was happening to my Dad, it wouldn’t be happening. But there in that hospital hallway, there was no more pretending away his pain. I could actually feel it in my own breaking heart, and so I wanted nothing more than to take my Dad’s suffering away. Just as he’d done for me as a child, kissing and hugging away my boo boo’s. If only it were that easy, but there was no easy fix for my Dad’s worn out heart. The fact that he’d lived as long as he had was a miracle in itself, but he was strong and I knew he could endure the suffering. He had to, I needed him to.
There comes a time in everyone’s life when they find themselves faced with a situation completely out of his or her control, where words, wisdom or logic cannot change the outcome. A time where only love can prevail. I was at that place in time as I listened to my Dad’s suffering. Walking away or holding my hands to my ears wouldn’t change the fact that my Dad was in pain. It was probably the first time in my life that I realized the value of putting someone else’s needs above my own. Just as my Dad had done for me on my wedding day. With tears streaming down his face, he let go of me because he knew that I both wanted and needed him to. And so it was on that day in the hospital, I realized that I could no longer expect my Dad to endure what he’d endured for years simply because I wasn’t ready to let him go. I felt myself trembling as I allowed myself to freely speak to God, myself, or whoever might be listening, “please take him, he’s suffered enough”. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt as if I’d betrayed my Dad for praying for his death. When in reality, I didn’t want him to die; I simply wanted him to stop suffering. Was it five or ten minutes that had passed when my Dad’s doctor spoke the words that I will never forget, “No, he didn’t make it this time.” All those other times when I thought he’d been invincible, this time he didn’t make it. He was only sixty-one years old.
Many years have come and gone since that day and there are still times when I look back and feel the angst of guilt wondering whether or not I betrayed my Dad by asking God to take him, especially before he got to enjoy one last Christmas, decorated one last tree or shook one last gift. But then I always come to the realization that I was able to give my Dad one final Christmas present. It was far more valuable than the remote control television set that he never got to see. It didn’t require shaking any bright colored packages to guess its content. And yet, I am quite certain that my Dad was aware of my final gift to him. It was the best gift that I ever could have given him. A gift that I am certain that he both wanted and needed from me. It was the gift of letting him go.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interest of the others. (Philippians 2:3-4)