October 13, 2024
289 Days Without You
Hi Dad,
Today is hard. I had another nightmare last night, and it was worse than all the others. I actually woke myself up from this one. You were dying again, but I guess that’s nothing new. I feel like I’ve watched you die hundreds of times now through all of my nightmares and how I relive your minutes every day. But what made this nightmare the worst was you said goodbye to me. In all of my other nightmares, we sometimes hug goodbye or have a mutual understanding that you’re dying, but in this one, you told me goodbye. You told me you were going to die and that it would be the last time I’d see you. You said it was important we say goodbye now because you didn’t know how much time you had left. I was crying, and we hugged. In the dream, I left to grab something, and I ran to your hospice room to see if you were still there. But by the time I reached your room, you were already gone.
Maybe this dream is so hard for me because we didn’t really get to say goodbye to each other. Dad, one of the hardest parts about your death was seeing you slowly slipping away over the course of months and weeks. You couldn’t remember the way you used to, and it took you so long to come up with the words you wanted to say. You often times just sat and smiled and nodded along in conversation, probably hoping no one asked you a question. I remember you were still coherent and understanding what was going on when we first sat down with the hospice staff and decided what the best plan of action was. You knew you were dying. You knew where you would go. But after that, your slipping started to accelerate. You weren’t just slipping, you were fading, Dad. God, that was the hardest part. I remember I would go to my room at night and just cry because I knew tomorrow would be worse than today had been.
By the end, you could barely speak, and if you did, it was in short, airy breaths. It took so much work for your body to form words that had once been so simple. I’ll never forget the last true conversation we had, with my head on your chest, lying with you in the hospice bed. I was crying, and I wasn’t sure you were even awake. But you looked down at me and said, “It will be better for you.” I couldn’t believe you said it. I couldn’t believe you were still here with me, hidden deep down inside your dying body, you were trying to think and piece this mess together. “No it won’t, Dad. Nothing will be better without you,” I replied, crying even more. “I want it to be better for you.” You didn’t respond for a few seconds, but then you whispered, “It will be better for us.”
Maybe this was your way of saying goodbye? Maybe this was you showing me that you weren’t scared of death? Or maybe you were just having a moment of clarity and I was there to see it. Either way, that was the last time we talked, with you responding at least. Dad, I don’t know what I would’ve rather had—you slowly fading, and not realizing what was going on, or you still being yourself all the way to the end, and knowing exactly what was happening. Both of the options are absolute crap. No one deserves either.
Point is, Dad, I suppose I got closure through watching your earthly body pass away and be buried, but I didn’t get any closure from you. We didn’t get to say goodbye or see you soon or tell each other that it will be okay. I think your mind left before your body did, and maybe that’s best, but it made losing you so hard. I said goodbye to your body, Dad, but I didn’t say goodbye to YOU. To your goofy personality, or your soft, emotional side. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the Rams fan, sports expert, or incredibly intelligent person you were. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the man who put in so much work to get sober or the one who tried to make things right with his relationships. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the beautiful singer you were or the football coach, movie enthusiast, or the guy who knew every word to every song. The one who still read sports magazines and loved comfort food and could watch the same episode of “The Office” a hundred times. That guy, my dad, was gone long before his body stopped breathing.
I miss you, Dad, and even though you’re gone, I’m still not ready to say goodbye. I don’t think I ever will be. Praise God I will see you again in Heaven, in glory, where you belong, where you already are. Then we won’t ever have to say goodbye, and you will never be sick. I anxiously wait for that day, Dad. I will meet you there—it’s a date.
