I’m not very good at making choices, at all…seriously….ever. The term “hemming and hawing” was made especially for me. This night was different though. I thought about heading over to the hospital, January 2, 2012 and I was on my way. It was about 5:30 and then I heard a voice that said – no, you will wear yourself out; don’t go. You stay home and cook for everyone and you can take another turn tomorrow.
My brothers were up at the hospital with my mom and they left to go and get coffee. My mom was there too and she stepped out into the hall to see what was taking them so long to go and get coffee, peeking out to see if they were heading back.
That is when my dad chose to make his graceful exit, on his terms with no one watching. He went in peace. I got the news and headed over to the hospital – my brother was on the phone and crying, mom was laid back in the chair with her mouth open like someone dealt her a blow she could not handle. My other brother stoically and quietly stood at my father’s foot of the bed. Dad was gone, he went to his higher ground.
For me, I was not able to grieve until months later. The night he passed, however, an overwhelming feeling of peace enveloped the room, joyous beams of light flooded the room although it was January in New York and it was about 6:30 p.m. It was dark outside. Had I gone to the hospital that night rather than choosing to take the day shift the next morning, I am more than sure that I would have been in the room as he took his last breath.
I truly believe that divine intervention prevailed here on this particular night. Neither my divine creator nor my earthly father would have wanted that memory for me. They put the thought in my head, made me choose unequivocally to stay home that night.
Together they both offered me a gift – the gift of peace as He gave my father the gift of ultimate peace, as well.
Two days before my dad passed, I made my peace with him and myself. I took a seminar – a transformational seminar – and I was able to say to my dad, “You know dad, you were the best father that you could have possibly been to me. His response, “I hope so.” Well, dad now you don’t have to hope or wonder. Now you know.
That was our last ever conversation…
Every year, I take on extending peace to someone that I am not peaceful with in honor of my dad’s passing. I do this every January 2.
Have you lost a parent and not been able to grieve until a while afterward? Did you feel guilty about that experience? Or maybe you felt joy and peace in the moment like I did. Won’t you be a courageous contribution and share your feelings here?