The Gift To Go

A little over five years ago my mother passed away after five years of enduring a horrendous illness, innumerable medical procedures, hospital stays, countless doctor visits and so many other events that it would be impossible to document. Throughout it all, she maintained optimism, dignity, her beautiful spirit and unfailing grace.

I, on the other hand, was a mess. I was angry at her illness, at God, and shamefully, at her, at times, for not fighting hard enough, in my distorted view. I wanted her to live. I wanted her to get well, get better. I wanted her to continue to be my mom, even though I knew in my heart that she would never be well and whole again. I continued my campaign for her recovery vehemently. Ultimately, she passed away.... of which I had no control over.

I had no control over it. None.

She died. And I couldn't stop it.

Today, my dad passed passed away. He had been in the hospital for the last two weeks. Triple-bypass was performed a week ago and his recovery was being hampered by mild liver disease and 'sick' kidney function, but we were optimistic for his recovery, albeit, a long road ahead. I have been with him since Friday. Feeding him ice chips. Wiping his forehead. Kissing him. Telling him how much I loved him. Holding his hand. Getting the nurse. Pushing for pain meds to be administered. Adjusting his pillows. Putting balm on his dry lips. Keeping in touch with family and friends...even those estranged for nearly 16 years.

New tests administered yesterday revealed that he had only hours left with us.

It has been grueling, painful, sad and surreal.

But there has been beauty and grace in the process. Along with all of the tears that have fallen and words whispered into his sweet ear, I was able to give him a gift that I couldn't give my mom. Not one that was to be opened with his sore, bruised hands, not one that cost me a penny, not one that was the wrong size, color or style. No, this one was the perfect gift.

I gave him the gift.... to go.

Friday night, weak and struggling with each breath, dad said to me as I bent over and stroked his face..."I'm dying." And he was. But instead of protesting, instead of saying "No, you're not!", instead of making light of it or chalking it up to the pain he was in, I smiled. I looked into his watery blue eyes, ran my fingers through his silky gray hair and said, "Dad, if you need to go, then go. It's okay." I kissed his forehead twice; telling him "I love you. This one is for you, and this one is for Mom when you see her. Tell her I love her and that I miss her."

Four times he told me that he was dying. And each time, I told him that it was okay to go.

Because as much as I was angry at his illnesses, mad at God, afraid to loose another parent, weary of pain and hurt and wanting him to continue to 'fight the fight', I learned from Mom's passing that there was something much greater for me to do. I couldn't control the diseases that were wearing his body down and taking him away from us, but I could, hopefully, give him love, comfort and peace in knowing that we were here to support and love him through the process.

And so .... I told my dad that it was okay to go.

And go, he did. Surrounded by his children, and, I hope and pray,

with a gift in his heart.