I’m Not Ready 

Dad was longing for home. Home meant a weekend getaway to his birthplace in North Carolina. Driving the four-hour distance wasn’t safe at his age nor with his declining health, so I offered to be his chauffeur and companion. We both needed a respite from the hostility we’d been encountering lately at the hands of my brother, Kenny. Though we offered a seat for him to join us, he turned us down. We were relieved. Kenny’s tantrums and plain meanness had been growing in frequency and intensity. This was one of the reasons I moved back home several months prior. With Dad’s chronic heart issues coupled with the losses of Mom and my older brother Stan, the last thing he needed was additional stress. And this particular weekend, we’d have none of that. So, with bags packed and my fur baby Sasha in tow (my 6 pound Yorkie that doesn’t believe she’s a canine), Dad and I had a beautiful, peaceful weekend down South. It was the best time we’d had in years. 

Our trip culminated with an unforgettable Daddy-daughter day upon our return home. And on that evening, Dad and I shared our last conversation together while sitting on the edge of his bed. Sasha lay at our feet. We laughed. We joked a bit. We smiled. And in retrospect, perhaps something within us knew. 

As had become customary, Kenny would either ride with me in the mornings (I would make the trip out of my way to drop him off at work), or he’d grow impatient and leave before me. Thankfully on Tuesday morning, March 10, 2020, his tantrum won over and he left without saying a word to Dad. He actually called the house phone for Dad around 6:30 a.m. but hung up upon hearing my voice. 

By now I was nearly dressed when I noticed Kenny had neglected to do the one chore he’d been relegated to since high school. “Tuesday is always trash day. Lord, have mercy,” I whispered under my breath, walking up the stairs past Dad’s bedroom, grateful that Kenny’s call hadn’t awakened him. Yet I thought to myself, Dad’s in the exact position as when I went down to the shower. I emptied the trash that Kenny had likely purposely left, and with trash in hand, I heard a voice speaking clear through me that wasn’t mine nor Dad’s. “Brace yourself,” the voice commanded. Dropping the bag, I stood for a moment. I heard the voice once more: “Brace yourself.” 

I began walking down the hallway where I met Dad’s open bedroom door at the other end. I crossed the threshold and called, “Daddy… Daddy… Daddy,” walking closer to his still body with each call. But he wouldn’t answer me. He always answers me. “Daddy!” I nudged him. Nothing. I felt his calf. “Daddy.” His arms. “Daddy.” His forehead. “Daddy!” He was cold. I reached for the phone on the dresser next to his bed and made the call. “9.1.1. What’s your emergency?”

Dad had made his final exit. He died peacefully that very night while I was sleeping in the next room over. I wasn’t ready. Discovering his lifeless body early Tuesday morning, I told him as much. Attempting to awaken him from the sleep that one only awakens to in that Sacred Place void of time. I pleaded with God too, over and over, in a manner that was more for me than God or Dad. But I knew my words were in vain, as the warmth of Dad’s lifeless body was nearly gone. But it didn’t matter. My words needed uttering. I needed God to hear me. I wanted Dad to hear me. It was all too much. Mommy just left thirteen months ago. My older brother, Stan, fourteen months before her. I wasn’t ready to lose Dad too. 

I sat by my father’s side, waiting for paramedics to arrive. Our morning began just the way the previous night ended. In his room, on the bed, just the two of us. Sasha, now at my feet.