Some Cheer and the Art of Giving

Nine years ago tonight, my Dad passed away.  I talked to my brother, sister and Mother today, sharing memories of his life and of those final days.  My friend Debbie thoughtfully called and recalled that it was the anniversary.

Dad had a stroke.  My brother, sister, Mother and I took turns staying with him to ensure he was never alone.  It was hard but important and very special to have the time to say good-bye.  Including the nights in the hospital, many when I was awake with him much of the night, it was probably the most consecutive hours I had ever spent alone with him.  

During the last days I talked to him about everything.  He couldn’t respond, except for a tear running down his cheek or a faint hand squeeze or a tiny smile when he opened his eyes.  But he knew I was there and that is all that mattered.  I told him about his condition, how we were carrying out his wishes that they not prolong his life unnaturally.  And that it was hard for us to accept that because we didn’t want to lose him.  I sang to him and he probably got really tired of that and wished he could turn the channel.  I pushed away the phlebotomist; why stick needles in a dying man (and incur unnecessary charges to Medicare)?  Dad smiled faintly as he watched the interaction.

Knowing the end was near, and that I had young children and responsibilities I needed to return to, I said my good-byes to Dad at the end of the week.  By then we had begun to make plans for a memorial service and I knew I would be returning again soon but would not see him again on earth.  He passed away while I was flying home.

I arrived home to a package addressed in my Dad’s handwriting.  He had been to the after-Christmas sales the day before his stroke and inside were three ornaments made by a company Dad knew I liked.  There was also a brief note that ended with:

“I thought these would bring you some cheer.  Devotedly, Dad”

He posted the package the day before he had his stroke.  I’ve always wondered if he didn’t have a little premonition that I might need some cheering up with their arrival.

Each year when I unwrap the three ornaments that look a lot like the three Muskateers, I think about Dad and how much he loved Christmas and his family and grandchildren.  (I am also reminded, by the chew marks on one of them, that I am glad my dog is no longer a puppy.)

The art of giving is really in knowing when someone needs to receive.  Dad had a knack for that.