January 6, 2022

January 6 is a day forever etched in my mind. And this is why…

December 21, 2021, the doctor said Dad only had weeks to live, so we high-tailed it to Illinois. Shane and I had been there early December, but we headed back December 23^rd. Shane went back home the day after Christmas, but I stayed.

Dad was kind no matter what was happening or how badly he felt. He appreciated everything we did for him. Every time anyone was sad or crying, including himself, Dad said something hilarious and had us roaring with laughter. Every day was a roller coaster of emotions. 

I was a terrible nurse, but Dad was a very patient patient. Like the time I attached his oxygen on backwards and possibly upside down, he laughed and waved his hand to tell me it was okay.

Dad couldn’t navigate the bed any longer, so he began sleeping in his recliner in the living room. Mom, Amy (my sister,) MacKenzi (my niece) and I all took turns having “campouts” with Dad. He was a chatterbox in the middle of the night as he watched out the window for first light. 

Dad had mixed feelings about these campouts. He felt bad we were missing our sleep, yet he loved having company during the night and always asked in advance who was camping out with him.

“Are you awake?” Dad asked in the darkness.

“Yes.” I would say, sometimes half asleep, and sometimes freshly awakened by his question.

Then Dad would begin to talk. And talk. He relived stories of his lifetime and we would laugh. 

Dad laughed at stories I told about Graeson, Everhett and Allistair, his great-grandsons. His favorite story was their potty-patch in their Granny and Grandpa’s backyard. He also enjoyed talking about Caden, his fourth great-grandson who had recently visited and left Dad laughing at his cuteness and fun.

“I’m sorry I’ve taken you away from Shane.” Dad would say. 

“He is doing fine,” I responded. “He is sending pictures of meals he is cooking, so maybe when I get back home, he will actually start cooking for me.” We laughed.

 Dad was sorry I had not been home to celebrate Christmas with my kids and grandkids. 

“It isn’t fair to your grandsons,” Dad said. “It ruined their Christmas.”

“Their Christmas was not ruined,” I answered. “They celebrated Christmas with their parents and other extended family. We will celebrate when I get back home.”

“Thank you for coming to help your mom,” Dad said repeatedly.

“I want to be here. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

Dad was always encouraging me to have a cup of coffee or to eat something, though he was unable to do either. 

Until his last couple of weeks, Dad was a man of few words. He talked more in his last two weeks than he normally talked in a handful of months. Time was short and he was leaving nothing unsaid. He was making up for lost time and trying to store up words for the time he would no longer be with us. 

Dad continually spoke words of love, thanks, and blessing over all of us. He made sure he didn’t miss speaking to everyone who was there, and saying a meaningful good-bye, in case it was the last.

“Martha and I have been married for 62 years. She is the love of my life.” This was his favorite proclamation to everyone who came to visit.  

Dad’s mind was going a million miles an hour. Things that needed to be done. Things mom needed to know. Things not to forget. Revealing his hiding places. Items he wanted to give and to whom.  

One day as Dad began repeating all his foretold instructions, I pulled out a notebook I had brought with me in case I filled up my journal. The blue notebook was wire bound, and the company had wittingly printed the word “wired” on the cover. 

“Wired,” I said as I held up the notebook. “Wired is the perfect word. Dad is wired.” We laughed. 

I began writing everything Dad instructed in the notebook, hoping to assure him we would not forget. 

It snowed the day Dad moved to heaven. He left us on Thursday, January 6^th, 2022, at 5:50 pm. Dad was 81 ½ years old. 

We knew Dad was leaving that day. The nurse had come early in the day and confirmed our suspicion. His breathing had changed in the early morning hours as I sat in a chair pulled right beside his recliner. 

Mom, Amy, and I all told Dad our last good-byes. He was no longer able to communicate, but we knew he could hear us; and like he had been with us, we were leaving nothing unsaid.

I was with Dad his last 14 days upon the earth, and as I told him more than once during our campouts, “I want to be here. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”