Dad

Two months ago my father died. He was 80 years old. For 30 odd years he had lived with an Adult Onset form of Muscular Dystrophy which destroyed the muscles in his body, leaving him a quadriplegic for the last 10. It was very hard watching a once extremely active and physical man become a physically challenged person. It was also hard to watch my mother's health deteroriate as she continued
to administer love and care to her husband. Mom really stood by her marriage vows of in sickness and in health.

A few years ago, we kids received word that Dad was in the hospital and the prognosis was not good. Those of us that could drop things and come were urged to do so. I was the first to arrive at that time and was included in a discussion about Hospice with one of the doctors. My folks set up a formal meeting with a Hospice representative and all my siblings were able to attend that session. At the time, my Dad, and we as a family, decided Hospice was not the choice for him. But it gave us all the sense that his time was running short. As he had so many time before, Dad got over his respiratory ailment and was sent home where Mom continued to provide care.

This February, Dad got pneumonia and was hospitalized again. Once again, the call to all of us to come as it looked ominous was made. This time, however, I was not a 2 hour drive. I was now 1500 miles away, and flew back. We were optimistic with how Dad looked and behaved but in the back of my mind was, this really could be it. The next morning, the hospital called my Mom to say Dad had indeed taken a turn for much worse and that it we should come in soon if we wanted to be with him.

Dad never did awaken that day. All my siblings did arrive to be at his bedside that morning and around noon, after several discussions with doctors and reviews of his lab work, honored Dad's decision to not prolong his life with any heroics. A few hours later Dad passed from this life to the next, unknown to us, but believed to be wonderful by his Christian faith and upbringing.

A few weeks after Dad died, we held a memorial service for him. While the service was very nice, for me the moving event of the day was before the service. Those of us who were participating in the service went to rehearse, my siblings and I were doing scripture readings, while 3 of the grandchildren were providing special music. When my niece sat at the piano to run through her peace, I was moving about the sanctuary, trying to decide on a location for my video camera - oh how I wish I had it on. The notes from the piano started and my brain clicked in. Wait, what's that she's playing? That doesn't sound like a restful, classical piece, that sounds like the Theme from James Bond. Oh my gosh, is she going to play this during the service - that would be weird but so appropriate. (My father, and several family members, myself included, are James Bond fans), Sure enough, my brother had prompted his daughter to play that particular piece at that moment in tribute to Dad. Even now, 6 weeks after the service, what chocks me up the most from that day is that simple music line - da da da da dat da da,

What a wonderful way to remember Dad.