The Peak of Inspiration

I found a soft spot in my heart this morning.  I can’t tell you what lead me to it, or what started the train of thoughts that caused me to ponder the late evening of January 27, 2022.  I did discover that the spot was still very tender.  Maybe always will be.  I tested it, felt it, and pushed gently to see what would happen.  A little like a doctor trying to diagnose a child’s problem.  Trying to find the wound or the injury.  Asking “does this hurt, or that?”  A couple of times, I pushed too hard, and my eyes started to water.  I don’t know if my heart is actually hurt, or if it really needs healing, but it is still a little sensitive in that area. 

Dad was fighting a battle with cancer.  Turned out it would be his last one.  That didn’t come as a surprise to us.  The question we all were asking was “how long will this battle last?”, and “how can we help fight?”.

I arrived at the house around 9 pm that evening.  All of my siblings and a few of the in-laws were there.  It was quiet in the house.  Dad was sleeping.  He had not responded much that day.  I walked up to his bed and in a very weak voice told him that I was there.  That can happen to voices.  They give out right when you need them the most.  Right when the stakes are the highest and words could make the most difference, they quit. 

We stood around his bed for a few hours.  Trying to keep him comfortable.  Trying to support the man who had supported us every waking minute of his life. 

A few of the grandchildren were there, and it was getting late.  Before they left, a couple of the girls walked up to his bed. 

Dad told us many times that he had no favorites, that he loved his children all the same.  I can’t argue that, but it did seem like that a couple of his granddaughters could get him to respond when the rest of us couldn’t.  Anyhow, one of them walked up to him and, in a voice that wasn’t suffering like mine was, told him “I love you, Grandpa”.  A couple seconds of silence, then without opening his eyes or moving at all he said “I love you”.   Another granddaughter stepped up to the bed and said “Goodnight, Grandpa” and he replied, “Good night”.  His voice was slurred and tired.  It came from a real effort.  And that only increases their effect on me.

As far as I know, those are the last words my dad spoke in this life.  Five hours later he left that room. 

Some sources say that we speak, on average, about ten thousand words every day.  We don’t know which ones will be our last.  There is a small percentage of people who do, but they are the exception.  And I have to wonder, how many of the words I spoke today would suit as last words?

Dad was almost 69 when he died, and although he didn’t say as much as the average person does, it’s still possible he spoke around 24 million words.  I believe I will remember the last four the longest.  And, if you ask me, they say about everything that needs to be said.

“I love you, goodnight”

I guess I pressed too hard on that spot again…