Father’s Day is just a few days away. And my dad is on hospice.
After Mom passed in 2020, a part of Dad went with her. For the past few years, he soldiered on. I flew down quarterly to visit him. He flew up to be a part of his first great-grandchild’s baby blessing. He even went on a short hike with my husband on Mt. Rainier. We didn’t know that was the last time he would visit my home.
Then, two years ago, as he weakened and began to fall, he moved into a lovely assisted living facility. He stopped traveling, but I still visited him quarterly. On one of my visits, I asked him for a father’s blessing. He was too weak to stand, so I sat on the floor at the foot of his chair. He leaned over and placed his hands on my head. My tears began to flow. I knew this was the last blessing my dad would ever give me.
A year ago, he went on hospice after a serious fall and illness. On one visit, I lay on the bed near him as he slept and slipped my hand into his. I never doubted my dad’s love for me, but physical affection was not one of his love languages. He awoke and looked down at our hands and, with a sigh, said, “I should have held your hand more.” He squeezed my hands, then he fell asleep. That was the last time I would be able to hold his hand like that.
Over the next 10 months, our visits fell into a new routine. He’d greet me with a laugh and tell me his favorite daughter was here. (I’m his only daughter.) I’d laugh and say I was glad to be there again. Then I’d jokingly tell him he wasn’t very good at dying. He would laugh and say, “I’m working on it.” We’d visit for a few days, then, as I left, I’d hug him and ask him to promise not to die before I came back, but if he did, could he please swing by my house in Washington and let me know before heading up to Mom? He always smiled and said he would still be here. Then, I’d fly home and buy my tickets for my next visit to do it all over again.
Until this time.
I flew down to see my dad the first week of June. I’d just seen him in April and wasn’t prepared for the drastic change. In just two months, his body and mind had weakened considerably. Instead of our loving banter and good conversations, he was more forgetful, confused, and sleepy. My questions were often met with a stare, as if he knew what he wanted to say but then forgot. We were able to have short conversations, but nothing long or with meaning. Speaking seemed hard for him. At times, he couldn’t speak even when he tried. It was like my dad was there but not there anymore.
When it was almost time for me to leave, I wasn’t expecting any substantial goodbye since Dad hadn’t talked much that day. I sat in his bed and took his hand when something changed. He saw me. I couldn’t hide my tears. He looked concerned and, in clear, throaty words, said, “I’m still here.” I smiled and asked him if he knew who I was. “My daughter,” he said.
I told him, just as I’d said a dozen times before, if he dies before I return, to come and see me. This time, he didn’t tell me he’d still be here. I simply smiled and said, “I love you … forever.” Every time we say goodbye, I wonder if it’s the last time. But this time, it felt like it actually was.
As I write this, I feel the pain and sorrow of what is going to come, and yet, I am strangely at peace because, throughout this experience, through my dad, Heavenly Father has taught me something: All my “last times” aren’t really last times. There is an “again.”
My situation with Dad is not what I would have chosen. But I love that my Father in Heaven has provided a way to not only help me in my grief and struggle now but will give me the opportunity to have a living and strong relationship with my dad forever. This is part of the beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ—it is a gospel of agains and forever.
This will probably be the last Father’s Day my dad will be alive for. But, because of God’s plan and the atoning sacrifice of His Son, Jesus Christ, I know I will be blessed by my dad again. I will hold his hand again. I will joke with him again. I will talk with him again. And I will hear him tell me he loves me again and forever.
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