Maybe, I am just optimistic by nature.  Hopeful to a fault.  Or maybe it is naivety.  Perhaps detachment.  Not sure I have ever quite figured it out.  But things do not tend to strike me with the severity that they possess.  At least not right away.

This was most certainly true when the call came.  I do not remember the exact words I thought or even said, but I remember the impression.

“Everything will be fine. He will recover. They will get him back.”

Earlier in that day, we had been planning our visit. Week three of admission to this speciality hospital. Week five since being admitted with Covid and pneumonia. Agonizingly slow progress towards recovery. But, there had been progress.

Our visits were sparse. Every two to three days at best. The distance, work, and responsibilities made it impossible to go daily, as much as it would have been good or nice to go more often. But, we texted often. Video chatted once or twice a day. This was good for all parties involved. Mom craved these times. Dad, as much as he seemed to downplay their need, also seemed to be fueled by them. Perhaps, I wonder, they meant more to him than even he truly understood. He had always kept insisting that we did not need to come see him everyday. And yet, I sensed at times a longing for more. I believe it was his sensibility and concern for the demand it would place on us that drove his assurance that he was fine and did not need visits but every 2-3 days.

That day, we had planned to go visit.  He waived us off.  Not feeling well, he said.  That had never happened before.   

Even then, I did not think much of it.  Why would I?  He had his up and down moments, but they were making progress. 

Later, the text came in.

“Can you call the nurses station?  I cannot find my call button.”

I was on the phone immediately.  They seemed to jump pretty quickly when I called. 

Concerned that something may be wrong, I called him immediately after hanging up with the nurse.  He answered promptly.  He had been bumped up on oxygen support and was definitely having a harder time today than most.  I heard the nurse in the background.  They chatted while I hung out on the phone.  They seemed to have it all in hand. 

Reassured he was fine, I disconnected and let him rest.  Trusting the hospital, nurses, and doctors to monitor and oversee him.

My mind cannot shake the memories of how hard this was on him. He was on the verge of tears multiple times as he would relay how hard this was. Breathing is one of the simplest and most basic functions for life; one of the most involuntary functions our bodies do to provide care for itself. And yet, this very simplistic, basic function felt like the epic battle of the ages. I suppose that until you have been there, we can never fully appreciate just how epic this struggle is. Empathy seems WORLDS apparent from sympathy sometimes. Struggling with this most basic life function was a new level of hardship. Struggling to breath was it’s own kind of suffering and struggle. I could see the fear it sparked in him. Not just for himself, though that was present too. I could see the fear in him should Mom ever get sick like this. He did not want her to suffer this way.

The irony is, I would have imagined that her advancing dementia would place her at greater risk.  Dad had always been the healthier of my parents.  Not that my mother was sickly, but my father just RARELY got sick.  So when they BOTH got covid and mom bounced back after a week or two and dad persisted; well, it surprised us all a bit.  But because of his tendency to good health, there was never any doubt he would recover.

Things do not always hit me with the severity that they possess.

Despite the fear, despite the frustration, despite the struggle that my father faced throughout these final five weeks, the thing that consistently stands out was his persistent faith and concern for others.  His concern for mom.  His concern for the salvation of his caregivers.  His greatest frustration? (Besides the food). Not enough time to talk with the staff to share the gospel.

I found myself during these final five weeks (and beyond) struggling to want to talk to anyone.  Sitting on a train coming home from Philly after visiting my mother when she had been hospitalized for agitation…I was weary and spent.  When a gentleman sat next to me on the full and crowded train, I felt a compulsion to talk with him, to strike up spiritual conversation.  I ignored it and kept ignoring it until he got off the train.  My dad would have talked with him.  In fact, all I can think of is my father’s story (that he told multiple times) about the one time he did the same, and it haunted him, and how he has sought never to repeat that mistake.  I thought this, even while sitting there.  How many times had I ridden this train.  Only this once I had felt such a compulsion.  And in my fleshly weariness, I ignored it.

Abba, forgive me.

The lessons of my father’s example; his love for God and his love for others drove him even while he was struggling with breathing, struggling with fear.  Struggling to cling to life while fighting for life’s most very basic life sustaining source, he persisted in reaching out.  I pray it is one of the lessons I take away.

It would be later that night when everything reached it’s crescendo.  Around 8pm we called for our nightly check in and to allow mom to say good night, a routine she had come to depend upon.  He was not answering our texts or calls.  I do not get terrified at the first unanswered text or call.  There are extenuating circumstances in life that do not permit immediate responses.  I am sure you can use your imagination to come up with a few.  😉

Oh how I look back on life…how did we survive before cell phones and immediate access?  Lol.  Our way of life has changed so much even in MY short 40 years of living, it is hard to fathom how VERY different things are.

However, after repeated non responses, I began to get concerned.  Knowing he had not been feeling well, I called the nurses station to check in.  I had never NOT had someone answer the phone.

No one answered the phone.

I tried multiple times.

I called the main number for the hospital and explained that they were not answering on my father’s floor.  They transferred me up, still no answer.

Now, I was growing alarmed.

As I was once more trying my father’s nurses station, THEY called my wife’s phone.  They had tried mine, but could not get through.

That is when the news came.  He was in cardiac arrest.

The silence on the floor was because the entire staff was in his room trying to resuscitate him.  For obvious reasons, his non responses were also now explained.

My wife’s look was panicked.  I was concerned, but not panicked. 

“Everything will be fine. He will recover. They will get him back.”

Things do not always hit me with the severity that they are.

They did not get him back.

This was the day my father entered my Creator’s presence and knew the end of suffering.

This was the day my father entered his eternal rest and found boundless joy.

I miss him.

I miss her.

I miss them.

It hardly seems possible that they are BOTH gone.

I can only hope and pray that their legacy will continue in me and in our children. 

At my mother’s memorial, she desired to end her service with the song, Find Us Faithful by Steve Green.  I could not get through this song without tears.  Even now, writing this, tears well up in my eyes.  My mother sang this song so many times growing up as we visited churches, reporting and raising support for their work as church planters.  But, it was SUCH an appropriate ending to her service and is my prayer.

May the legacy we leave, may my parents legacy, lead others to life faithful lives for the glory and name of our AWESOME Creator and Savior.

Find us Faithful

We’re pilgrims on the journey

Of the narrow road,

And those who’ve gone before us

Line the way.

Cheering on the faithful,

Encouraging the weary,

Their lives a stirring testament

To god’s sustaining grace.

O may all who come behind us

Find us faithful,

May the fire of our devotion

Light their way.

May the footprints that we leave,

Lead them to believe,

And the lives we live

Inspire them to obey.

O may all who come behind us

Find us faithful.

Surrounded by so great

A cloud of witnesses,

Let us run the race

Not only for the prize,

But as those who’ve gone before us.

Let us leave to those behind us,

The heritage of faithfulness

Passed on thru godly lives.

After all our hopes and dreams

Have come and gone,

And our children sift thru all

We’ve left behind,

May the clues that they discover,

And the mem’ries they uncover,

Become the light that leads them,

To the road we each must find.