SUBJECT WARNING 

This is sad and about my father's death, dear readers.  Please avert your eyes  and click away if you aren't up for this content. I completely understand.

It was the moment we had waited for and why

we were all there (I guess) in your hospice room:

your final breath, the last moment you would live. Your

oldest son was there, and he sat close to you. Your youngest 

daughter who just wanted you to wake up, and the middle

daughter who wanted it all to speed up, gently, were there.

Me, (not the youngest daughter, not the oldest, not even the 

middle one) stood back a little from your bed. Your breath so

slow, each intake measured, each output filled with our relief and

trepidation. (Your breathing reminded me of the tranquil waves against

the shoreline at the Big Lake on a peaceful day. You always said,

“She’s flat as a dime today.”)

In a perverse way your last breath became

the prize we were all there to catch, to witness, to hear. 

The hospice nurse confirmed that morning

that the waiting was almost over. She examined your

feet, took your pulse, and intently listened to

your breathing with her naked ear.  

"Today," she said. "Maybe this morning."  

That's when I knew I didn't want this prize,

this moment, not in my trophy-case, not in my memory bank. 

When the moment came and your last breath was seconds

away, I walked out of your room. I walked away from you at

that last moment. I chose to walk out. I saw the look on

my sister-in-law's face as I walked out. I could tell she wanted to

tell me I would regret it, but I knew I wouldn't.

(I never saw you not alive.) 

Minutes later Mom arrived. That morning, upon the

pronouncement of impending death from the hospice nurse, Mom

declared, “I need to volunteer at the church  today. I need to make

sandwiches for the homeless. He won’t die when I’m gone.” She left. 

(Did you know that, Dad?)

Just when your oldest son came out of your room and we

walked outside, she came back. He told her because the oldest

must and should. The look on her face of shock and surprise,

of fear and sadness still wakes me up at night, Dad. After fifteen

years of your illness with the last seven bedridden, I think she still

believed, “He will never leave me.”