Choosing to be with my dad in his final hours was, other than my decision to enter religious life, the hardest decision I have ever made. It was also among the simplest.
My dad had been in the intensive care unit with a lung infection and then sepsis for a few weeks, and his time there had turned into a seemingly endless purgatory of touch-and-go. This is why, from the moment I found out in a fateful phone call from my mother that my dad would not recover, I knew I had to go see him through to the end. I can’t quite explain it, but the idea of missing that time with him just did not seem like an option. And like my discernment to enter religious life, it was a gut reaction I acted on and did not look back. I’m going to visit my dad and be there when he dies, I thought. My own confidence in the moment, I have to admit, startled even me. I can be known to take my time with decisions—as I did when choosing a college or even finishing my own writing projects—but the two hardest decisions in my life were made in-the-moment based on a gut feeling.
Of course everything that followed that decision was more complicated. My thoughts raced from the moment I hung up the phone until about six hours later when I set foot in my dad’s hospital room. A part of me had made a concrete decision, but the rest of me was still trying to catch up and wrap my head around this fact. Looking back, the doubts I had were my body’s rightful flight response. Every fiber of my being told me to run away from this; run away from death; from whatever I would find behind that curtain when I finally did cross the threshold of that hospital room.
These doubts were screaming in my head when my Uncle John picked me up from the airport and drove me to the hospital for the last leg of my journey. Our drive was a long and dark one through residential areas and down back roads of industrial blocks to escape the traffic on the expressway. We were racing against time, even though neither of us acknowledged it.
All the while, I thought about turning back. I considered telling my Uncle John: “Never mind, I don’t want to go to the hospital. I can’t do it. Take me home instead.” I was afraid. Afraid that, even though I had made a decision and was determined to follow through with it, facing my dad in his death would be too much. What if I was too traumatized by seeing him and regretted my decision for the rest of my life? What if I discovered a side of myself and my grief that was too much to handle? What if I got all the way to the hospital and decided to back out? But I didn’t. I knew that if I chose to go back to my childhood home instead of the hospital, and resigned myself to the dark and emptiness of my Illinois hometown, my soul would be restless. I knew I would spend the evening wandering around in the dark with an empty stomach and an empty mind, occasionally bumping into Grandma and my sister, Tess (the only two home at the time), ultimately wishing I could be with my dad. No, I couldn’t go home. If I missed these final moments with my dad, if I did not confront death in this way, I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Looking back, it was a good decision. Being there to be present to my father as he died is a grace and a privilege I hold in the core of my heart. And I recognize that not everyone wants to have that experience or is able to make a decision about it. For some people travel, finances, complicated relationships, or even the simple circumstances of time keep them from witnessing the death of a loved one. Of my own sisters, I was the only one who was able to be with my father in the end. But each of us spent time with that decision and grieved the way we were each meant to. As the oldest, part of my decision came from an innate sense of familial responsibility to be there for my dad, and especially for my mom. But I also chose to do this for myself. I had no idea what I hoped for from being present for my dad’s death except maybe peace, or some semblance of it. I think I also just wanted a sense of control. I couldn’t control the fact that my dad was dying, but I could, in a very human way, attempt to create a nice and tidy end to my relationship with my dad on this earth by being present with him in his final hours. This ache to bring closure is, I think, why I followed my gut and made the decision so quickly to be with my dad.
I am thankful I confronted death. I’m thankful I was there when the heart monitor went flat and gave that final beep. I’m thankful I got to touch my dad and his death, to lay my head on his chest after he gave his final breath. I’m thankful that my experience allowed me to form a relationship with death, to stare into its presence and not run away, to sit with it and simply accept its presence. I’m thankful I found the strength to be present to all the small moments at the end: to watch football with my dad in his final hours, to share a bag of Cheetos with my mom, to have my time with my Dad and tell him all the things I needed him to hear, to hug my mom when my dad was gone. My experience allowed me to go home with, if not peace, a sense of closure—and a renewed faith that I would never be alone on the path ahead.
