The Call

I rise at my usual 6 am, stumble to the bathroom, then check my phone to see what I have missed with my early going to bed. My heart suddenly stands still and I cannot breathe. A voice mail message from my sister. Is it Dad? I fumble about, punching speed dial to voice mail and work through the menu. Press 1, press 2, listen to the instructions, yeah, yeah, come on already.

Finally. Deb's voice. "Hey, Esther. It's Deb." Her voice sounds weary, stripped of emotion. "It is 12:15 on the 23rd. Dad just passed away." I am stunned. I listen forlornly as Deb tells me she will call later with details. I sit quickly before I fall down. So then. That's it. He is gone. I am at once relieved and repulsed. How can this man who has been such an integral part of my life, of me, be gone? What a relief that he is no longer suffering. I am in anguish. I want to know more, but I am sure no one is up at this hour. I will have to wait.

I return to bed, curl up in a ball, and the tears begin. They roll down my face, washing away the limbo-ness of the last few weeks. It is over. Sugar whines, sensing my distress. I ignore her. I let the tears come. I remember little things about Dad, curious bits of scenes to be recalling now. Dad in his winter hat. Dad sledding down the hill near his house. Dad with hammer in hand reconstructing a wall in the house. I wonder how he is doing now that he is free from the pain and suffering, how he finds heaven. I think of Michael, and what he told me of heaven before he died. Good and wonderful things. I hang on to those images of heaven being a joyfilled place.

Quietly, gently, I am surrounded by the presence of God. I sense his peace, his love, his caring. It is like being held and comforted, knowing that its OK to cry. I pray for Mom. I hope she is experiencing the same comfort. I spend the day alternately crying and cleaning. If I learned anything from Mom, it is that when you are in distress, an excellent remedy is physical labor. I do last night's dishes, I cry. I clean the cupboards and appliances, I cry. I scrub the floor, I cry.

How is it possible to have so many tears? I am surprised that even though I knew he was in his last days, I am so affected by his death. You would think my eyes would be red and puffy, but they aren't. When I finish with the kitchen, I tackle the living room, washing away the dust, vacuuming. Then I head for the bathroom. I am at last beginning to feel that weariness that will allow me to come to terms with everything, to be at peace. The tears slow. Now there is only a fresh outburst here and there as I begin to let people know.

I am glad I had a chance to be with him before the end, to leave my letter of gratitude, to kiss him goodbye. I am glad he did not die on Christmas Day, for Mom's sake. I am glad he lived a long and productive life. And sadly, I am amazed that I have outlived him. He will be much missed.