My father was rushed by ambulance from his rest home to St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah Friday, but I only just heard about it. I received a call from the floor nurse and she told me he is not expected to live. His lungs are filled fill up with fluid and are continuing to fill u with more fluid: he has pneumonia. He’s been unconscious for two days.
The nurse transferred to the call to my mother in his room, and when I asked her why she hadn’t notified me immediately, she said she had tried, but I couldn’t be reached. I suspect that she was so upset she dialed the wrong number. My only sibling sister and her husband are are away for the Holiday weekend and won’t be back until tonight.
I asked my mother if she had notified anyone in the congregation and she said she called the PO yesterday. No one from her congregation has called or stopped by. Mom and Dad have known many of these people for over fifty years.
My worst nightmares about dub selfishness and lack of compassion are now confirmed. I suspect many of them will non-chalantly say, “Oh, but he’ll face the prospect of resurrection into a Paradise earth.” That’s bullshit comfort for my mother right now because she’s a wreck. All the fifty five years they were together she could hardly say a good thing about him, and all of my life I had to defend him before her judgements about him. Now that she faces the irreversible prospect of losing him, she has managed to recall all the wonderful moments we had as a family, moments that until now, she refused to recall.
Facing death of a loved one is like that. All the petty things that happened seem so minor when the prospect of losing forever someone you truly loved is staring you in the face.
I have been preparing myself mentally for my Father’s death for several years now. During that period I’ve told him everything I felt I needed to tell him, the good the great, the bad, the ugly. I’ve told him that despite all of that, he is a great man in my eyes and he is a great father. He taught me to love and respect hard work. He taught me to fix just about anything fixable. He showed compassion and forgiveness when my mother would get on her many rampages towards him and us. He stayed with her all those decades even though she’s been on medication for depression for over forty years.
There was only one thing I hadn’t told my dad, and I just did that a few minutes ago.
She put the phone to his ear so through all my tears I could tell him goodbye.
"Goodbye, Dad. I will always love you."
Farkel
"When in doubt, duck!"