Let Go

Beep. Beep. Beep.

How have we come to end up here? Your body, that bed, covered by those snow-colored sheets. They aren’t soft as snow, though. They’re scratchy. Harsh.

You shouldn’t be under those sheets.

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyes are closed. My thoughts beg you to open them. To open them and see me. To open them and know me…

Your daughter.

“Dad…..all's ok, dad.” My words tremble. My hand caresses yours.

God, let dad hear me.

My words crack. My prayer stops. So my eyes absorb your features - all of them.

The creases around your eyes. The shape of your eyebrows, cheekbones, jaw. The leathery feel of your hands. Your hands - hands that supported mom, supported me.

Through work. Through play. 
Through love.

“Dad, squeeze my hand.”

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your body doesn’t move anymore. Your breath comes through jagged gulps.

You - we - aren’t supposed to be here.

“Dad, your daughter’s here.”

My tongue forms the words, but my ears hear them as though they were uttered by another person. The empty tone echoes off the cold ward walls.

My heart feels separate from my body.

Yet both my heart and my body stand by you. My very soul stands by you.

Just as you always stood by me.

You’re not alone, dad. You’ll never be alone.

“Can you open your eyes?”

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

No response. That’s ok.

The last moment your eyes opened, they were vacant. Your gaze was hollow. Your body doesn’t have enough oxygen to let you know me, see me, anymore.

But dad, that’s ok. Because my heart knows you.

Far off a telephone jangles. A nurse answers. Her muffled tone wafts through the ajar door. But we don’t care, do we, dad? We’ve a world of our own here. Just you and me. Together.

Your eyes flutter. My heart flutters too.

“Dad, can you open your eyes?”

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Don’t worry dad. You can’t open your eyes, so my eyes’ll close. Just as yours are. As they do, my heart sees you anyway. Not as you are now, dad. As you were.

My mouth curls up at the remembrances….

The honk of your old, beat-up truck when you came home after twelve hours of work, day after day after day. You worked so hard for us.

Four-year-old me swept up by strong arms. Bear hugs that smelled of grease and cars. Board games and card games and computer games and outdoor games. You loved games. You loved to have fun.

You made younger me so happy.

And you were so smart, dad. You could make any car run. And you were so tall. You were my superhero.

Are my superhero.

My hand squeezes yours.

“Squeeze my hand, dad.”

…….

Beep. Beep. Beep.

And people, dad. You were so good to people. You loved people - and they knew. They knew you loved them. Not because your tongue told them. Because your hands showed them.

Your hands mended my broken toys and screwed our broken gate back together. They put on new roofs and dug gardens, planted tomatoes and then weeded, harvested, and canned them to the wee dawn hours.

Your hands may be rough, but only because they grew rough from your showcase of love.

Your hands are so strong dad. Even now. You don’t have to squeeze my hand back to prove that. You already have.

My hands’ll do the same now, dad. They’ll love people as yours have done. My heart and my soul'll teach them to help others, to care, to protect, to serve. Just as you showed me to do.

"Dad, can you hear me?”

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

We shouldn’t be here.

Dad, my heart and soul are so sorry. So sorry for all these tubes, these sounds, these pokes, these smells.

Sorry that your last glance at your beloved cat was from an ambulance door.

Sorry that you weren’t able to say good-bye to your home, your spouse, your sanctuary.

Sorry that we were unaware you wouldn’t come back.

Could we have known, dad? Had we known the end, would we not have rushed? Could we have stopped, hugged, talked - when you were able to talk?

Yes, we would have. We would’ve let you cuddle the cat as long as you wanted. Eat the last morsel of candy. Get your best blanket. Lay on your bed - your soft, comfortable bed, surrounded by photos and blankets and love.

Are you mad that we’re here, dad? Or were you more aware than me?

Were you aware that that was your last departure from the house you called home for almost twenty years?

You were calm as we left. You were strong. As you always have been.

But my heart’s so very, very sorry.

Dad, can you hear me?

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The clock says 3:00 a.m. now, dad. We’ve been here seventeen hours. You’re not alone. We’re together, you and me, all the way to the end.

Your breath sounds labored now. Wet. Sloshy. A nurse tells me about a phenomenon called ‘death rattle.’ She says you have that.

She has more meds. She pushes them and your breath sounds better for a moment. But then the O2 sats on the screen go lower. Down to 70. Then back up. Slowly back up.

Breathe, dad. Breathe.

Or….don’t.

Really.

Don’t.

Because where you’ll wake up, dad - heaven! Heaven’s so much better than the home we left yesterday. You won’t hurt anymore.

No more chemo. No more meds. No more doctors. No more hurt or stress. And you get to go there, dad! You get to go there.

Grandma’s there, dad. And grandpa. And your son, my baby brother. Of course, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s 37 now. They’re all ready to greet you. They have years of hugs to shower on you. They’ll take your hand, dad - the hand my hand holds, and squeezes, now - and show you beauty you’ve never seen, landscapes you’ve never dreamed, songs you’ve never heard. And after a thousand years you’ll not even have scratched the surface.

Heaven. You get to go there, dad. Today.

“Go ahead.” My mouth forms the words over and over as my head bows near the ear that lays on the snow-colored, flat bed.

“Mom’ll be okay. She has me to protect her now. Just as you have done. You taught me well.
Go ahead and go.”

My shaky hands pull up YouTube on my phone. The screen softly plays a hymn. Over and over we play the song. Peace comes as we do.

You’ll hear the angel’s song soon, my ears hear my mouth tell you.

Go ahead and go, dad. Go hear the angels’ song.

Go, dad.

Go.

Suddenly, your eyes flutter open. You look at me.

My hand feels pressure. Small. But there.

Then, just as suddenly, your eyes close.

You were able, dad! You squeezed my hand!

You looked at me!

You knew me.

You heard me.

Thank you, God.

Thank you, dad.

……

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Day has dawned now. Mom’s on the phone. Through tears, she says she loves you. She’s sorry she’s not here, dad. But she can’t be.

But we both love you. So, so much.

Your heart rate starts to drop a lot. And the rate doesn’t come back up now. The nurse enters. She starts to turn the screen off. My mouth tells her to stop. My heart needs to see, to know the exact moment when you go to heaven.

95……….89………..82….……

My hand has yours, dad. You’re not alone.

………78…….…73……….69……

Your breath grows shallow, then stops. For a moment, my breath stops too. Then you gasp. Your lungs sound as though they are full of water.

……….61………54……….48…………

Loud alarm bells sound. They warn us of your low heart rate. The nurse turns them off.

………39………………..28…..…………22…….…

The only sound’s your slow, labored breath, each one softer than the last. My eyes dart from your face, to the screen, then back. Your face looks pale. But also at peace.

Go see the angels, dad. Go hear the angels’ song.

……..19……………….14…………………..….10………..

Go, dad. Go.

…………..…6………..………..3……..…………….

We’ll love you forever.

……

The screen says “0” now dad. The nurse says you have no pulse.

She removes the tubes.

She tells me to stay as long as needed. Then she leaves and closes the door.

My eyes look at your body on the cold, hard bed. No tears well up. My heart’s too numb, too exhausted. They’ll come later. Buckets of them.

Your body’s here, dad. But not you. You’re free.

Mom and me are so proud of you. You’re so strong.

We are strong.

……

The door to your room opens and closes soundlessly as my body walks out a half hour later. But my heart stays there, dad. Stays near you. Near your body.

None of me can comprehend what has happened. My heart, my soul, and my body are numb. They float through the hall, unaware of people, places, objects. A man helps me on the elevator when my hand forgets how to press the buttons. He speaks gently to me. Maybe he’s an angel, sent by you. Somehow my car door opens. Somehow my body gets home.

But you are not there. You are far away from me.

And yet my soul knows, we are not separated. Because your DNA, your genes, are part of me.

Father and daughter. Forever.

…….

Two months have passed, dad. The calendar says August. The weather’s better now. Not so hot.

Football starts soon. You and me, we loved to watch football. But my heart doesn’t want to now. Do they have football up there?

What all have you seen? What have you done? Are the streets really gold? How are grandma and grandpa? How’s my brother?

Dad, can you hear me?

……

Mom and me, we’re okay. We love each other. We look out for each other. And we love you. 
So much.

Every day.

There’s no good-bye, dad, when you love someone. There’s only see you later. So, see you later, dad.

Mom and me, we’ll be along soon.