Moments of Grace

In many ways this summer has been a very difficult one. My dear dad passed away on Aug. 29 after a battle with stomach cancer and a host of other complications. And so, our immediate family (mom, sister, my wife and a few others) were on the work-hospital loop pretty much every day for five or six weeks. If you’ve done that, you know exactly what I mean.

When my dad had his surgery on Aug. 1, we were encouraged by the surgeon’s report straight out of the operating room. Looks like we got it all, he said. There were a couple of “dots” that would have to be treated, but the main mass was removed cleanly and it didn’t seem as if the tumor had spread from the stomach.

And for the first week, my dad was recovering well. He was eating, walking and completing his therapy regimen. In fact, he was about a day away from being released to a rehabilitation center to continue his therapy. Unfortunately, that day never came.

Instead, a real bad night led him straight to the ICU, where he spiraled downward from the effects of pneumonia, an acute respiratory disorder and an aggressive cancer that had, in fact, gotten to his lymph nodes.

We held onto hope, even when my dad’s health went from bad to worse. We prayed at his bedside, read him Scripture passages and, especially in the case of my sister and me, retold many familiar stories from childhood, including the one about the bait box that got away from us on a fishing trip with dad (trust me, it’s a good one).

It was odd to see my dad in such a compromised state. He was always a kind of Superman figure to me. Even a few months ago, when I took him for a doctor’s visit, I remember him dexterously pivoting around a tree as he propelled himself forward by scooping the trunk with his hand and arm. Not bad for an 83-year-old.

My parents are both people of deep, abiding faith. A couple times as my dad faltered, I remember my mom asking, plaintively, why God didn’t “do a miracle.” She wanted to keep my dad right where he had been, for the past 55 years—next to her.

And my dad, if given the choice, would have gladly stayed right there. He adored my mom. Seeing them in the hospital together, holding hands, sharing a loving glance or a kiss, was a beautiful gift for two adult children, each married 20 years or more ourselves.

A couple of days before my dad’s death, his doctors gathered the family for a meeting. There really wasn’t anything more that could be done for him medically. He would not be coming home, as we had hoped. It was just a matter of time.

On the final morning of his life, my dad did have one or two surprises for his family. Due to the medicine and his condition, he hadn’t been responding very much in the week before his death. Occasionally his eyes would flutter open for a few seconds before sleep would overtake him again.

That last day, he not only opened his eyes, but he stayed awake for about 10 minutes. He was not able to speak, because of the tracheotomy he had undergone, but he checked off my mother, sister and me with long glances and a nod of his head. We spoke to him and he was fully present and alert in that moment.

When a priest chaplain arrived to pray with us, my dad awoke once more and even commenced to bless himself with the sign of the cross at the end of the prayer.

It was a final gift from dad, and a tender mercy and comfort from God who is always faithful.