Dancing In Eternity

In 1973, Dad had an exceptional year selling German farm equipment.  So much so that he and a few others from the sales staff earned a 10-day trip to Germany to tour the plant and take in the beauty of Bavaria.  The trip of a lifetime for a couple that loved to travel.  The picture above was taken at one of their dinner events.  Until recently, I never new my parents danced.  But now its a picture I can't get out of my head.  You see, my dad passed away almost 2 months ago.

It happened on a Sunday afternoon.  Dad had his normal Sunday.  He got up early and went to church with a couple that had faithfully taken him for the last 3 years.  He went to Sunday School and voluntarily tried to read the scripture, although he wasn't able to finish because of his diabetic neuropathy.  Afterwards, he made his 11am phone call to his best Marine Corp buddy Gus.  Then he went to lunch and ate mostly watermelon - one of his favorites.  Sunday afternoon was filled with Cardinal baseball and one of their few wins this season.  At 4:45 or so he started to make his way to supper.  Twenty feet outside his door, he had either a massive heart attack or stroke and was found slumped in his wheelchair a few minutes later by another resident headed to supper.  Local EMTs (actually a nephew and his daughter - my cousins) arrived on the scene too late to do anything.  They took him back to his room and laid him peacefully on his bed until the coroner arrived.  Just like that, he was gone.  While I knew it would happen eventually, I never thought about how or when this day would come.  I do know that I had different plans for that day. 

Dad had had a few incidents the week before with some of the people in charge of his care at the independent care facility he lived in.  Several times in the past he had been reprimanded for traveling down the hallways of the center backward and endangering the safety of the other residents.  Four times in a row that week he disregarded the requests of the administrator to ride down the hallway in his wheelchair going forward.  Each time as soon as she turned her back, he turned around.  At one of the meals he yelled at one of the staff in front of the other residents.  He argued that they weren't changing his bed, or were stealing his sheets.  And he stopped eating tomatoes - something he NEVER turned down.  The staff supervisor noticed that his color was poor and asked him if he felt okay.  He said he was fine.  She later called and told us all that had been happening that week.  Right then I knew that Dad was now beyond taking care of himself.  We had talked earlier in the summer about possible new living arrangements (him moving closer to me) and it looked like that time was now.  I took that Friday off work and visited a couple of the nursing home and assisted living centers in the area and prepared myself for "the talk" which I had in my mind would take place Sunday afternoon.  But on Thursday I had a doctor's appointment in which we began changing my diabetes medicine.  We upped my dosage of glyburide and my blood sugar level over the next 3 days was on a roller coaster ride.  So when Sunday afternoon came around, I felt jittery and nauseous.  I laid down after lunch to take a nap and figured that I'd call Dad after supper and tell him I'd be down to visit him later in the week.  When I awoke, the kids asked if I wanted to go for a bike ride.  I thought the fresh air would do us/me good so off we went.  When we got back, Prudence grabbed my hand and ushered me into our bedroom.  Oma (her mother) had been staying with us, and I figured there had been some sort of argument.  It typically happens about 2-3 days into a stay.  I couldn't have been further from the truth.  That's when she hit me with the news from left field.  The grief was overwhelming.  And what made it even worse was that I'd missed the opportunity to talk with him one last time - all because of an upset tummy.

It's taken a while to come to grips with his passing.  If any of you had been reading my entries over the last year, you know our relationship hadn't been what I'd liked it to be.  Some of it was my fault.  Some was his.  But inthe last few months we had made some great strides in getting back to where we were 2 years prior - and possibly moving into new, uncharted waters.  Just a few weeks before his death, he told me he loved me.  It's something I've always known, but it was the first time I can remember hearing it.  It was in response to the "tough love" talk I had with him a week earlier.  You know the one that's normally broken out into several talks, except I lumped them all together.  I had to tell him he couldn't drive out of town anymore, ask him to allow me to handle his finances (he had missed some bill payments), and suggest that he may need to leave his adopted hometown of 45 years and come live closer to me.  In addition to all this, I broke the family rule and told him that I loved him.  Now he was gone, and I'd never get to tell him I loved him or hear him say he loved me again.

But now as I look at it, I realize I'd been given a gift.  I didn't have to throw away all the progress our relationship had made with fights over driving, money and moving.  I don't live with the guilt that I most assuredly would have felt if I had made the trip that Sunday and laid out the grand plan to him only to have him pass after he heard the news.  And I have a wonderful memory of Dad telling me that he loved me.  Sure I miss him and I wish he were still here.  But looking back, God had better things planned.

And speaking of God, I come back to the picture which opened this post.  Ever since Mom passed in 2004, there's been a hole in Dad's heart that couldn't be filled by anyone but her.  Now he's reunited with her in eternity.  And they're dancing every day in His presence.   I can't think of any better ending...or beginning.