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One month ago today, I walked right beside death. It stretched me. It broke me. And it pushed me beyond anything I expected.
12:36 PM, August 29th, 2018, my sister Karen texted me.
"Alex, you might want to come soon"
For months we had known this was coming. Yet no matter how much we thought we had prepared for it, the moment came without warning. I had spent almost every weekend in Lethbridge, with my family, beside dad for the previous three months. Every time I had to leave him and come home, I thought - I may not see him again this side of heaven.
So here it was. The day I had dreaded. I drove down to Lethbridge desperately begging the Lord to give my dad just enough time for me to say a final "See you soon". But what I walked into that afternoon, made me realize just how selfish my request was.
I arrived at his side at 5 PM. He was most likely in a coma, or slipping into one at the time. He was struggling to breathe, with too many seconds between breaths. I could hear the fluid in his lungs and I watched his eyes roll back every so often when his eyelids would open. I could sense the nearness of death.
In those moments I cried. I cried tears and I spoke words, both audibly and silently, that wanted to throw Cancer right out the window. To watch someone you love suffer at all, is hard, and yet there I was watching and listening to dad reaching for his final breaths. It was gut-wrenching.
My sister Heather, unfortunately was in New Zealand at the time, but we were texting with her, keeping her updated on what was happening.
"I'm at home preparing for the family to arrive in a few hours. However, my spirit is with you four there with Dad. I'm listening to this beautiful track and praying for the Lord to take Dad soon" she texted.
Karen, mum and I turned the track on. It felt right for our family to be listening to the same peace-giving music even though we were not all together. I laid the phone on dad's pillow with it playing low in the background. Those moments were precious and swift, though at the time they felt like forever as we watched dad slowly leave us.
My brother-in-law Al was there too, along with two of his children. He sat beside dad and literally prayed him home. I remember my sister Karen, with her hands on dad's chest and mine on his head saying, "I think he's already looking down on us".
Within 75 minutes of arriving, at 6:18 PM August 29th, my earthly father went Home.
Just thinking about it brings tears. But then why does that surprise me?! I'm a sensitive one, and I lost my daddy. I realize the tears are part of the process. However, I have also found a sense of peace, at times.
It comes in waves - the peace that is. I will definitely say it's still mostly tears that come, And those are during moments of really missing him - I can't call him to see how he's doing, or stroke his soft bearded cheek, or send him a picture of the boys and their crazy antics. But then comes the peace ... a sense of realizing just how much he has left behind.
His love of scripture. Man, it was always on his lips or written on his desk.
His adoration of his family and always wanting them around him. He came to life when family was around!
His desire to write and teach. I'm already digging deeper into the words he's left behind!
His constant up-keep with technology. You should have seen his face when we gave him an iPad for Christmas in 2016. He was talking about how useful it was for him forever!
Dad practicing his selfie skills!
His love for music-and not the flaky type he'd let you know. The rich and deep melodies and lyrics were life-giving to him.
His skills at creating and drawing. The plane on his book "WAR KIDS" is his own creation!
I see so much of him around me. In my kids. I see it in my sisters. In his wife. He's still here.
I miss his physical presence here with me. Even now, my eyes are welling up with tears, again. But he is here. His light, his love, his passions, quiet yet present passions, are showing themselves daily. I just really don't want to miss even one of them!
And for that, I am weepy, terribly weepy, yet extremely grateful.
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