To Dad

Dear Dad:

I know you have no earthly way of reading this. Even if you did, you probably wouldn’t.

You always said reading put you to sleep. I can confirm that. Sitting on the couch watching movies, listening to music, reading a book, all of these activities often had you sawing logs.

You died at 12:55 p.m., Saturday, May 14, 2022. You were 74 years old.

I was perched on a metal folding chair by your side when you stopped breathing.

I sat there watching your motionless body for a few seconds before I felt your wrist for a pulse. It was gone. I stood up and felt your other wrist. Same story.

I hit the call button for a nurse to come into your hospital room to confirm your death. She could not find a pulse. She had another nurse try. Nothing.

The Hospice nurse ran up, grabbed both my arms, and started doing deep breathing exercises in front of me. I looked at her like she was a loon.

There was no need for drama. You were finally out of pain.

I called mom. She was returning to the hospital after visiting early that morning and then going home for a bit. When I said, ‘Dad just died,’ she responded, ‘My God. I’ll be right there.’

And she was. Just as she had been for more than 50 years. Right by your side. Holding your hand. Touching your cheek. Smoothing your wrinkled brow.

Dad, it’s been a heartwarming and heartbreaking few weeks.

When I called J.J., I told him you just died. He responded with a string of creative swears you would have loved to hear. Your towering, stoic cowboy son swore like a sailor on the docks. When he and Wendy arrived to see you, they both had been crying.

We sat with you for a few hours. We sat in silence. We stood in silence. Then, we talked about your final wishes.

Dad, I really hope you would have been proud of us.

I know your last days were filled with pain and confusion. I hate that the most.

We all tried our damndest to do our best for you. We asked the doctors difficult questions. We sat with you when you were quiet. We encouraged you to open your eyes, to come back to us. We tried to comfort you when you were agitated. We researched traumatic brain injuries. We talked with specialists. Lastly, we abided by your medical directive.

Dad, it’s really strange without you here now. Mom is running around town canceling prescriptions, donating unused medical supplies for people to use. She met with the crematorium staff. She didn’t upgrade the $88 black plastic urn you prepaid for when making your final plans. We will scatter your ashes as you requested. No need to get fancy all of a sudden.

J.J. is preparing for Preston’s high school graduation and party this weekend. Preston picked up his cap and gown the first day you were in the hospital. Never one for great timing, were you dad?

I’m at home with Kevin and Luka and all the birds on the pond. The three new goslings just waddled by. They are darn cute.

Life for us is now finding a bit of normal even though it never will be again.

Dad, I can hear your voice in my head, ‘Kel…Can I call you right back?’ I can feel the last time you reached for and squeezed my right hand in that blasted intensive care unit.

I know you have no earthly way of reading this. I just hope you can hear it from my heart.

Love,

Kel