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If you believe in God, there are times you feel closer to Him or Her. There are times you feel His or Her presence. There are times in life you would kneel and thank the Creator with all you have. There are times you would say, “Thank you, Lord, for my time here.”
I have a difficult relationship with religion and the divine. I really have trouble following the script. I think the Book is good, but I tend to read parable, when I’m told to read document.
But there are moments that pull us, strong and sure and clear. Moments that make us want so much to believe. And if it’s not true, we just don’t want to know. Not ever.
My Dad was dying. We both knew that. This wasn’t his first heart attack, or his first surgery. He was an old man who’d lived hard.
***
“Daddy, I’m going to die!”
“No, son, you’ll be fine. Come with me. We’ll fix you up. There now, don’t cry, son.”
I was six, and I’d been hurt in an accident. Blood was flowing and pain and fear were what I knew. But when my Dad spoke, everything changed. His words were authority. His eyes were certainty. His hands on me, and lifting me, were the love every person should feel when they’re small.
***
“Dad, I feel sick to my stomach,” I said. “It hurts. I want to change her world. I want to be her hero. I want to… I want to take her pain away and be the reason she smiles.”
“Congratulations,” he said, with a sage grin. “I guess this is it. You’re in love. Run with it. Give her everything you’ve got.”
***
Now Dad was different. The strong body was gone. He lay in his hospital bed. His chest bore the insults and the proof of the very best medicine had to offer. I was at his side, shaky and apprehensive.
Stephane, the orderly, walked in and leaned quietly against the wall. When Dad was coming out of the anesthesia, he’d said some cruel, hateful things about Stephane. Called him by the name of an activity in which gay men engage when making love.
Dad had shocked me by later making friends with Stephane. He’d apologized, sincerely and with detailed appreciation for the man’s skills and decency. He’d made amends. But today he politely refused Stephane’s offer of a shower.
"No, Stephane, my son is going to help me today,” Dad said. He meant that I would be the one to help him undress, sit on the sturdy chair in the shower room, and try to wash away all the unpleasantness of hospital life.
And that is what I did. I bathed my father. I untied and removed his gown. I guided him to the plastic chair. I took a cloth and the shower head in my hands. I gently, and with reverence, washed my Daddy’s scarred and damaged body.
It was hard. I didn’t like seeing him like that, his weakness and human frailty exposed. This was my Dad. I struggled to maintain my composure.
Later, he thanked me with dignity, unashamed. Something in his hardship had changed him. Had given a gift to a man already blessed. Had invested him with some quality I didn't quite know how to describe.
I kissed him and fled. The instant I passed the door of his hospital room, the tears came in a flood. Stephane was in the hall, and I accepted his hug with gratitude. “He is a fine man,” Stephane said. “He loves you very much. He talks about you every day.” And Stephane held my hand while I cried for what had happened, and for what would happen soon.
It was only later, after the formalities and the rites, that I would understand what Dad had done that day. He had exercised his wisdom. He had reversed the nurturing. After a lifetime of being my source of gentle strength, he gave me the opportunity to care for him. I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am to him for so doing.
The good death of a good man forced me to think about big things. I can never say with confidence that I believe, literally, in all the stories of any of the good books. I just can’t do that.
But if you ask me if I believe in something more, something beyond, something that sustains… I’ll answer with a smile. I don’t want to recruit believers, and I really don’t know what I’d recommend. But I believe in Something, and it was the grace of my Dad that gave me that certainty.
I’m not in any hurry, believe me, but I do look forward to whatever answers lie ahead.
###
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Comments
He stood 6' 5" in bare feet, and weighed somewhere around 250 lbs., but he wouldn't let the orderlies help him to sit up in his bed once we got there. He said they hurt him, didn't know what they were doing. I could do it, though, even though I was almost a foot shorter, and over a hundred lbs. lighter. For some reason, he latched onto me out of the five of us kids, and I didn't leave his hospital room except to eat for the next four days, and left only when he finally moved on.
Like you, I think that was his last gift to me - that time when it was just me and him. Rated.
That day came when my mother got ill and I had to place him in the shower and bathe him, wash his hair, shave him...a blessing and a curse. He took it like your dad, humbl;y and without comment other than thank you. I do have belief, just not sure what it is...
be at peace. you did good.
I've been travelling a fair bit. For some reason, perhaps the disconnection from people and things familiar, when I'm travelling I often find myself indulging in vaguely spiritual meandering. And for me, that's inextricably linked to my Dad.
I was very fortunate, and I know it, and I'm extremely grateful. I won the lottery. I had a terrific Dad, who taught me everything he knew. He was tough and kind, and he taught me what it meant to be a man. When he died, there was not a thing left unsaid between us.
We loved each other fiercely, and he gave me strength and peace. He still does.
As for afterward, what is to come, comes bidden or unbidden, and it comes as it is, not as we wish it to be. If you can live with that, then you can die with that.
This sounds like a very personal, but also a very amazing moment of your life. Thank you for sharing it with us. It was beautiful.
I think it does you credit. Equanimity is not lack of feeling. I suspect it's superior wisdom.
He was ill for ten years and each time he got very sick and was hospitalized he fought valiantly to become well again. He always succeeded, but each time he became a little bit weaker and his disease became a little bit stronger. One day, I got a call from the Resident looking after him to come quickly to the hospital because he was refusing treatment (an invasive internal line, for the blood transfusions that kept him alive for the last few years, because his poor veins could not take the repeated punctures any more). They were so used to him being a fighter and willing to try everything to get well that they were convinced that he was refusing because he had become confused. But far from it, he had just realized that it was time to stop fighting the inevitable, especially if it meant that in continuing he would lose any remaining quality of life he had left.
Well, after talking to Dad, this quiet, polite little Mouse fought like a lioness so that the medical staff would honour his wishes. I not only had to convince the medical staff but my mother and sister as well that Dad meant what he said. It was not easy for me, knowing that without blood transfusions he would not last very long.
He died a few weeks later, holding Mom’s hand and gazing into her eyes as she talked to him about their life together. She told me that she only realized he was gone when the firm yet gentle grip of his hand on hers relaxed. This was just over ten years ago. I still miss him but I am at peace with it. For a man so ill, he had a gentle and peaceful passing.
Man Talk, you are wonderful. (Ever think a woman you just made cry would say that to you?) Keep writing.
I had such a moment with my mother before she died. Like yours, it was a pivotal experience.
This made me cry. Even in the end it was his certainty that taught you. This is so touching.