My Father’s Final Gift

I have a picture of me standing next to my father in his baccalaureate robes from the local University. I am the 5th child of what will eventually number eight. He had completed a bachelor’s degree in business as the law degree he wanted became impractical with a family to support. I am five years old. We are holding hands.

I held that hand for many years. As a child, I rode the city bus downtown, getting off at 4th South and State Street and hiking to the Capitol building for lunch on the lawn with my father. He would take my hand as we chose the perfect spot in the shade of an elm tree for a picnic of meatloaf sandwiches, deviled eggs and homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Afterwards, he would fold up the paper lunch sack to be used again, I would give him a hug, taking in the smell of his clean dress shirt, and hike back downtown to catch the bus going home.

Fast forward another decade, another picture. This time I am the one in the graduation robes – still holding the hand of my father.

In his final years, when we took a walk with his oxygen tank and he tired, we would rest for a few minutes. As we started back home, I pulled the oxygen tank with one hand, and held on to his hand with the other.

I knew his time on earth was drawing to a close. He was, after all, 88 years old. But every time I thought about his death, it left me feeling abandoned and desperate.

I had never made friends with Death. Outside of my grandfather’s passing when I was a child, I had very little personal experience with final goodbyes. Nor were my feelings well-served by a tour of a mortuary as a young adult. Odd instruments and gruesome tips and tricks on preparing bodies further cemented my desire to hold Death at arm’s length.

And then Death stole my father from me, and I found I no longer wanted to keep it away. The father I knew was gone, but his body was still at the mortuary. I felt a pull to visit, and yet, I didn’t know how to go about even verbalizing my need, especially when others in my family didn’t share the same desire. Then a sister, who is better friends with Death than I, arrived. She verbalized what I couldn’t, and together, we went and visited my father several times. I watched her talk to my father, touch his face, and hug him before we left. With her example, I learned fast.

The opportunity came to dress his body for the last time. Again, I didn’t know how to express my desire to be part of that. One more time, my sister led the way. She set up the time and at the last minute, an older brother joined us.

It was the week before Christmas. The room of the mortuary where he lay was inviting and homey. We pulled up a playlist of Christmas tunes and talked about memories of Dad as we finished the dressing that had already been started. We joked that the neck of his shirt had to be cut in the back to accommodate a thicker neck. We remarked how the wood block his head rested on probably wasn’t all that comfortable. All the time, I held onto his hand. The hand that had steadied me throughout my entire life. Time slowed. The world shrank to our room at the mortuary, made sacred with beautiful Christmas music and the man that had meant so much to his family. Finally, there was no more to do. It was time to leave.

I had held onto his hand the entire time. The warmth of my hand had warmed his. I knew my father was gone. The funeral was the next day. But against all of that knowledge, my breath caught. His hand was warm. Maybe it was all just a mistake, and he wasn’t really gone. For the briefest of moments, it seemed as though he might wake up and we would walk home, hand in hand.

And then the moment ended. For one last time, I hugged him, taking in the smell of his clean dress shirt and gave his still warm hand, one last squeeze.

It was my father’s final gift – to learn how to say goodbye in a much more satisfying way; to realize that the feelings of abandonment and desperation pass and that after some time, are replaced with a bearable ache that eventually yields to fond memories and smiles. In short, he taught me how to make friends with Death. It was your final gift, Dad. Thank you.