This month’s letter is personal. For me, it’s cathartic. Heads up, it has nothing to do with Chicago, travel, or fashion. It’s about life, and the opposite.
I am writing this so that I’ll always remember, because many of you knew him, and because those who didn’t can still relate to losing a loved one to death.
This month’s letter is about the last five days I spent with my father at my parent’s home in Arizona, the final days of his life. He fell asleep in death April 20th, 2019, a few hours after commemorating the memorial of Jesus’ sacrifice, together with over 8 million of Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide.
These days, I’m more aware of the free gifts he gave me from which I am still benefiting, the greatest of these being a purpose-filled life.
My mother is facing her new chapter with courage. Relying on a “power beyond what is normal,” she is still a happy, assiduously thoughtful woman. I’m grateful for her tenacious spirit.
We are both indebted to the friends and family of faith that encouraged us to remain strong, and filled our hearts with love where my father’s death left darkness. You are forever a part of us. You are not friends. You are not family. You are something more. We thank you. We love you. Everlastingly.
Lastly, remember to be joyful. It’s summertime, even for the grieving.
Monsters
The monster I feared has already appeared. In the end, my fright was sharper than his bite.
Delayed
A springtime blizzard in Chicago delayed my flight to Arizona by more than 9 hours. I was afraid we wouldn’t make it in time. I called my father, and he answered with his usually boisterous, “Hello!” He was fine.
When we finally arrived, he had just broken free from a hallucination-inducing fever. My husband and I stood over his bed and looked down on a man that once towered over us. My father is 6’2 with an athletic build like a high school basketball star. Growing up, I’d admire the trophies displayed in his office. He was relatively fit then— save for a belly that implied he loved beer a lot more than was true. Looking down on him that Sunday night, he seemed almost childlike.
It had been 4 years since his diagnosis. Treatments and surgeries left him strong enough to travel more with my mom, but weak enough to regret it. “Remission” became a million-dollar word. Still, a part of me thought he’d gotten through the worst.
With happy eyes, he looked up at us. He spoke of his sickness as if my mother shared it with him, which was theoretically correct. “We knew it’d get bad, but we didn’t know how bad it would get.” He looked at my husband, his only son. “I’m just so happy you guys finally made it. I’m sorry I can’t be with y’all while you’re here. I’m doing my best to fight this thing.” The doctors decided there was nothing more they could do, and hospice care was set up for him at home. My mother cared for his needs better than any nurse ever could; changing his sheets, trying to keep him fed and hydrated, bathing him, and giving him massages with herbs and ointments she read were helpful for this and that. She was full of hope. So was he. So was I.
Driving
My father moaned through the night and day like a man being tortured. He said it made him feel better, and the nurse assured us he was in no pain. My mother’s face was unshaken. She continued, focused on her duty as wife and friend. She did everything with a smile and enough positivity to float a balloon. “Good morning, daddy, ” I told him.
“Hey there.” He was weaker than yesterday.
“How’d you sleep last night?”
He turned his face to the window away from me. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional. His muscles were spasming and his arms tensed up and released like big fish on shore. “You know…”
“Okay, well I’ll let you rest.”
Growing up, I used to love our long road trips to see family in the South. The dining table would be covered with maps the night before. We’d sneak out of the house at 3 a.m. like reverse robbers, and my dad would drive the entire way.
Hours past and I returned from grocery shopping and running errands. “I thought you were renting a car at the airport,” he asked.
“I took an Uber here instead. Besides, we can just use your car. Why? If we had rented a car, you’d want to drive it?” His new Cadillac truck sparkled like a black diamond in the garage. It was a sympathy gift to himself, from himself. We were alike in that way, always knew how to spoil ourselves.
“Naw. I think my driving days are over. . . for a while.”
Jolie Laide
The next morning, I ran for 4.5 miles. The air was clean, fresh. As I got closer to the house, I recognized a familiar face getting out of the car near my parents’ front door. “Rick!” He turned to me. His face was heavy with concern.
“Hi, Karina.”
“It’s good to see you.”
He told me my father was a gem and described a man I never knew. He spoke of someone who weighed his words carefully when speaking to the discouraged. He was patient, mild. Anything he could he’d do for the congregation — that side of him I do remember. I was proud of the man he described and wished I had known him, this old man version of my dad, too old to be impatient and too worn to be hard.
Before Rick left, I heard him praying with my parents. I bowed my head from the guest room and ended with a whispered “Amen,” letting God know I was in complete agreement with his words, words I didn’t have the years to find. He left, and I felt a load lift from my shoulders. Spiritual men are invaluable, a hiding place from the wind.
Evening popped the light from the sky and turned the desert a dark navy, woven with threads of purple. Starting from our backyard was a complete rainbow, clearly visible from end to end. Below it played a group of new baby bunnies my mom fondly called hers. The three of us stood together, my mom, my husband, and me, looking up at the sky. A family. Even in this ugliness, there is so much beauty.
The ugliness would be temporary. The beauty, unending.
Tomorrow
The next day, my father was no longer able to speak a full sentence.
“I’m going to bed, Daddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yea. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”
“Tomorrow? This. . .”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too.”
I sat on the bed in the guest room that doubled as his office. His trophies were gone.
He won’t make it to the morning, I thought.
I was wrong. He lasted three more mornings.
Perfection
The night of the memorial of Jesus’ death, my mother said, “his eyes are different.” Our hope wasn’t gone, it was changed. We now thought of the future. Not tomorrow, maybe, but a not too far off tomorrow where all of us will enjoy perfect health. We put on our best clothes and dressed daddy in a new Oxford button down. Together in my parent’s bedroom, the four of us gathered around my cell phone and remotely joined their congregation in commemorating the most important night of the year.
The Bible-based talk was like a personally delivered gift from God to us. We were never out of reach for his loving hand.
The speaker expounded on scriptures I had read my entire life, but I heard them anew tonight. “Picture yourself in the new world,” he said, “with your family, enjoying peace and security (Isaiah 11:6-9), and perfect health (Isaiah 35:5,6).”
We went around the room and chose our favorite songs, singing them together. My dad seemed lifeless, but he lifted his arm, and I grabbed his hand. Mom held his other hand. We sang loudly, full of hope only One could provide.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
Past midnight, with peace in our heart, we all went to sleep.
More info: Can the Dead Really Live Again?
Images: Kari Herrera for Chicagoings