Linger

We tried to get comfortable in the cold, dark room. But a hard, white hospital floor isn’t made for sleeping even with extra blankets and pillows. Neither is the small chair in the corner of the room. The racket of the machines wouldn’t have let us rest anyway.

Not that we were very concerned about resting. Our main concern was that the transition home went well for Daddy. After the doctors told him there was nothing more they could do, he decided to go home. We were waiting with him at the hospital to help with the move. To do whatever we could. To be with him.

We don’t know why Dad took off the BIPAP mask.

He had tried to communicate with us several times earlier and was aggravated that we couldn’t understand him. Everything he said was distorted by the air being forced into his lungs by the mask. He was already struggling and even more so when he had to repeat himself. We were heartbroken to the point of tears watching him struggle, still failing to understand his words.

Maybe he was tired of the mask and the straps pressing into his face. Maybe he took it off because he wanted to tell us something and he needed us to understand him. Or maybe he knew he couldn’t handle the trip home.

We will never know.

The alarm shrilled as soon as the mask came off. We rushed to him, panicked. Desperately and clumsily trying to put the mask back on. Calling for the nurses. Yelling, “Daddy, Daddy!”

Daddy looked beyond us, holding the tube of the BIPAP machine tight in his hand. We couldn’t get the mask back up to his face. When we realized he was taking his last breaths, we rubbed his arms and face, held his hands, reassured him we were there, told him we loved him. My older sister sang a hymn.

We burst into tears when we realized he was gone. A nurse came in and verified he had no pulse. She told us to take as much time as we needed.

We kept looking at him. Crying. Wondering.

We called Mom first. Then our youngest sister. Then our families.

I walked into the hall then back into his room. Unsettled. Restless.

Some other family members came to comfort us. We cried together. Lingered there beside his bed.

Remembered.   image

Prayed.

What now?

It felt strange to leave him. We stalled. Kissed him on the cheek. Held his hands again. Told him we loved him.

We left reluctantly. Silently. Exhausted.

Missing Daddy already.

23 thoughts on “Linger

      1. Oh I feel for you sister! It must be really hard for you. Good luck, I’m sure you’ll do wonderful at fiction too:)

  1. While it was difficult and hard for you to loose your dad,I am pleased for you that you shared those last intimate moments with your dad.That is a priviledge we can only be grateful for being there when your parent departs. Praying that you can draw comfort from that. May his soul rest in eternal peace.

  2. Oh, that was hard to read. I was with my own father when he died, with my sisters and my mother. Missing him is hard some days, but I do look back and thank god I was there for him—that we all were. So I can relate a little bit to what you felt, and how hard it must have been to write this.

    1. Yes, we are blessed to have been with him. Dad wasn’t sick long so we were all shocked, including Mom. She wanted to go before he did but she was still with us 7 months after he passed. She missed him so much. We were with her as well when she passed in January. She was at home surrounded by her family like she always wanted. Treasured moments with my parents that I’ll always be thankful for.

      1. Oh, wow. You have been through a lot lately. It sounds like you and your family are handling it as well as can be hoped, but nevertheless, I’m so sorry.

  3. This was heartbreaking to read. It is beautiful that you were there with him. I was with my Mum when she took her last breath and I know exactly what you mean about being reluctant to leave… I was nearly 8 months pregnant with my twins who will turn 20 this year. I am lucky to still have my Dad who is 93 years young 😃🐻

Leave a Reply to HumaAq Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.