This is Good-Bye

"Dad, hang in there, don't give up," I said over the phone. "I'm coming home." I could hear his mumble on the other end of the line as he moaned a painful "Yes." And just by the sound of his voice I knew that this was the end. My dad was dying. This was it. I thought back 2 weeks ago. I had just spent Christmas with my family, and as I hugged him good-bye, I had this very strange sensation that it was the last time I'd see him alive. I don't know why. At the time he was doing just fine. But as I stood there, hugging him, I knew in my heart that it was our last hug. Like a truth, I just felt it.

So there I was, browsing airline sites online, calling customer support for help, emailing my client to cancel an upcoming project, making arrangements for my pets, clearing my social schedule and packing in a hurry. It was impossible to focus on the packing. "What to pack? What to pack? Think. You were just there ten days ago. What did you wear? Just pack the same stuff." And so I carelessly threw a suitcase full of clothes together, tears rolling down my face. Two hours later I was on a plane back to Vienna.

Several delayed flights later and after multiple sprints from gate to gate and a lot of begging to let me on overbooked flights I was back home. I barely made my last connection in Frankfurt. I was determined to catch the earlier connecting flight out, although an airline employee assured me that it was impossible to catch a connecting flight in Europe within just 40 minutes. "You'll have to go through immigration and change terminals."
   "But I have a European passport. I can make it."
   "That will be impossible."
   "I can make it."
Take 20 minutes off that due to a flight delay and I had exactly 20 min to catch that early connection. But  I was determined. I was going to manifest this and make it possible. I got my phone out and composed the text message to my brother, confirming that I caught the earlier flight. That way I would just have to press send once I got to the gate, hoping the airport provided free wireless service and I could connect to it in time. Exhausted and tired from a sleepless night (because who really can sleep in an upright position on a plane that packs you in like tuna in a can?) I sprinted through the confusing Frankfurt airport as I heard them make their last call for all passengers on the 12:20 flight to Vienna. Of course I ran in the wrong direction. By the time I corrected my mistake and arrived at the gate, the gate was closed.
   "Hi," I panted, completely out of breath. "I was hoping to make it on this flight."
   "Do you have a boarding pass?"
   "I do not. But a seat was reserved for me. They didn't think I would be able to make this flight, so they gave me a boarding pass for the evening flight."
   "Did you check a bag?"
   "Yes."
   "Then we cannot let you on this flight. You cannot fly without your bag."
   "I really don't care about the bag. I'm just trying to get back home to my dad. He is in the hospital, dying."
   "I'm sorry, but it's TSA regulation. We cannot let you on the flight without your bag."
   "Look I'm just trying to get home to my dad. There's got to be something you can do."
Another airline employee stepped to the counter, inquiring about my situation. "Oh, it's a family emergency? We'll just have to enter a specific code." She reached for the keyboard to the computer and started typing, made a phone call, and like a miracle, two minutes later they re-opened the gate for me and told me to run.

My brother was already waiting for me at the airport and we drove straight to the hospital. "He looks really rough," he said. "Don't let it scare you." I opened the door, and there he was, sharing a room filled with awful florescent light with two other patients. Because in the end, if your insurance doesn't cover it, you can't even die in privacy.
   "Dad, I'm here." I reached for his hand and ran my fingers through his hair. He screamed out in pain. Even the gentle touch of my hand against his head hurt him so much that he could not bear the pain.
   "How was your flight?" he mumbled, hardly able to form words.
   "It was fine. I made it."
He nodded, squeezed my hand and closed his eyes. My mom and aunt were sobbing behind me. My uncle could not bear the sight and waited outside the room in the hallway. An hour went by, my dad in and out of consciousness, but always waking back up, eyes wide open, searching the room for mine, remembering his promise to hang in there until I arrived. Then gently closing his eyes again in the comforting relief that I was there.

The doctors said he likely wouldn't make it through the night. The room was depressing. All the worried, sad faces and quiet sobs. I decided I wasn't going to let my dad see my cry. I wanted him to know that I understood he couldn't stay and that it was okay to go. So when he looked up at me, I smiled and I tried to be kind and comforting.
   "Dad. Are you afraid of dying?"
No response. He just turned his head and looked off to the side.
   "Dad, you don't have to be." Pause. "Dad, my favorite memories with you are our many hikes through the woods. Except that one time, when all us kids were around six years old and you decided to take us on that four hour hike up the mountain, without any water or snacks packed." I chuckled.

His pain was getting worse. The pain medication on his drip had run out and clearly it wasn't doing the trick. Eventually a nurse walked in with a syringe. Morphium. His kidneys wouldn't be able to handle it. The doctors must have finally signed off on him, giving up, accepting the hopelessness of the situation, recognizing that there was no coming back from this. This was his death sentence. 

I watched the heartbreaking looks of agony on my dad's face melt away when they finally shot him up with morphine. I held his hand and he looked in my eyes. His eyes said it all. Like a mix of fear and terror being transformed to apologetically giving in and a sudden understanding and acceptance that this is the end. Suddenly, all the pain was washed away. His face was filled with relief as he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. I held his hand for a very long time, wiped the drool off his mouth, adjusted his head, his pillow, his blanket as he drifted further and further into unconsciousness. He lived for a whole other day - like a final testament to the tough guy he always was. I will never forget that final look. It is haunting. But I am equally grateful that it is mine.

I hope that in the end I was able to help my dad let go. I hope that my forced smiles, restrained tears and calm presence made it easier for him. Maybe that's why he chose to spend his final conscious and lucid seconds looking at me and holding my hand out of everyone in the room. I hope he knew that it was okay. That we would be okay. That mom would be okay. What I really wanted to tell him was: "Dad, don't be afraid of dying. Death is not the end. It is only the end of the current form of our soul. The body grows old and tired, but the soul doesn't die. And just like at birth, it is painful and scary to enter the unknown. But there will be hands catching us on the other side." I hope he knew.

He died on a Sunday. I was born on a Sunday. He always told me that children born on Sundays are especially lucky in life. "You're a Sunday-child. You don't have to worry about a thing," he would say.

Now you're a Sunday-child, too, Dad.

Baba Papa. Ich hoffe du kannst wieder lange Spaziergänge durch den Wald machen, auf jedem Ball tanzen, und alle zum Lachen bringen. Tüt, tüt, tüt, toff.