Saying Farewell

In early March I wrote about grief in my syndicated column, based on the experiences of a close friend. Then on March 11, we got word that my dad, Vernon Miller in Goshen, Indiana, had subtle changes in his diabetic condition. He was 89 and a kidney specialist said neither dialysis nor surgery would help. He had a blockage, and they gave him two to four weeks to live.

The information set my two sisters, brother, and I mentally spinning. Mom was stunned, too, but since she was his caretaker, she knew how much his health had deteriorated and had been preparing herself for many years. Seven years his junior, she was glad to be able to take care of him as they both wanted. Then one night she couldn't get him very far into bed, his legs were so heavy with fluid. He fell out near morning and Mom called an ambulance.

We three siblings who live out-of-state made immediate plans to visit Dad and Mom. Then a sudden high temperature and unexplained vomiting (and presumed aspiration of food and pneumonia) caused us all to speed up our plans, driving late into the night to get to Dad's bedside. My sister, a nurse in the same hospital and same section where Dad was, stayed with him as much as possible.

As often happens, Dad rallied. All of us kids had not been in the same room at the same time with him for about three years. My brother gave him a good shave, he downed hamburgers and fries, and declared on the morning he was checking out that he was feeling great (along with a line that shall remain forever a personal and fond family joke).

However, we knew down deep that the prognosis was not good. We took the advice of the doctor and planned for hospice care in the health care center at Mom and Dad's retirement complex. The siblings and Mom all agreed on the decision and spent a tender minute or two holding hands in his hospital room feeling the immensity of this step. Dad had signed a living will. He didn't want to keep having tests, X-rays and shots. The doctor took him off insulin and kept him on whatever meds were necessary to keep him comfortable, such as keeping excess fluid from building up on his legs and heart. He could, for the first time in 20 years, eat as much candy and ice cream as he wanted.

As we checked him into his room in nursing care, Dad said, "I just wish I was on my way to glory." At various times, we said our goodbyes, our "I love you's" and "You were a great dad." My brother prayed with him and released him to God's loving care, and told Dad that we would all be okay. I read him a Psalm. My sister sang songs. My other sister got out of him the proper Pennsylvania Dutch response to "Ich glicthe" (which kind of means "I love you a whole bunch.") The proper response is a loving, "Ich glicthe ah" (which means, I love you right back.") Our hearts were heavy, full, and loaded with questions. How long would he hang on? Did Mom and Dad have enough money to last a year or more in nursing care, if it came to that? Should we go back home? These were all the questions that so many of my friends and relatives had faced over the years.

On Sunday, March 19, he enjoyed one of his best days in years. We took him to the church where we had all grown up. He enjoyed the drive and the service, staying awake the whole time, alert, commenting, asking questions, and telling Mom he wanted hot dogs for lunch. We had planned a large family gathering at noon for all who could come; he prayed a wonderful blessing, ate lunch, stayed awake all day (something he never did anymore) read books, talked, and enjoyed the great grandchildren. He tossed a ball to one of them and fed another some ham for supper. He talked to my husband on the phone; something he really hadn't been able to do in years, and talked to my brother (who had had to return to his home in Florida).

The day was wonderful gift. But of course we didn't know if it was the beginning of a recovery, or one of those times the dying often have shortly before they bid us farewell.

It turned out to be the latter, and the following Sunday morning, March 26, when most of us were in church, our cell phones vibrated with the news: Dad was going to church in heaven that morning. He died about the time many of us were saying prayers for him.

And all I could really say as my husband and I made plans to go to Indiana for the funeral was a grateful, heartfelt "Hallelujah!"

I feel very fortunate to have had him for a Dad, to have had a warning and the chance to say goodbye; to not feel a lot of guilt or anger or regret. He was not perfect: we all remember bad times with him. I do feel sad, lonely, and sorry that he won't be able to experience a lot of the things I still hoped he'd experience with us. But most of all, I'm glad he raised us in such a way that our goodbyes were really only fond farewells.

If you had or have a godly parent, the challenge is to live in such a way that you honor God with your life and prepare your heart to spend eternity with Jesus.

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Contributed by Melodie Davis: MelodieD@MennoMedia.org Melodie is the author of eight books and writes a syndicated newspaper column, Another Way