The room where my father died is not haunted in the way my childhood self envisioned it would be. It holds no frightening ghosts or terrifying memories, strange as that may seem. It is a place of calm, the space where we shared our last moments with Dad, where he took his final breath and left his physical form behind almost exactly a year ago. After serving him for 92 years, it was time.
In his final rally, that sacred period of time in which someone will return to their usual self right before they’re about to die, Dad sounded like his old self. He engaged with us all, making mostly coherent sense, even if the topics varied wildly, as if dictated by someone anxiously waiting for him on the other side. ‘Please wait,’ I prayed to myself and whomever might be listening, ‘Please give us a little more time.’ On one of those last days, I sat beside his bed, holding his hand and gently talking. As was most often the case, just being beside my Dad was all the strength and comfort I needed.
He was talking about Sister Margaret, who was one of the nuns he worked with when he first started at St. Mary’s hospital. He had always been equal parts annoyed, at odds, and in awe of those nuns, whose religious affiliation proved both impressive and problematic. Somehow, he managed to get along with Sister Margaret, despite how difficult others sometimes found her to be. Mentioning how she didn’t always talk to everyone, but would engage if someone spoke to her first, he remembered how they had never had a fight. Sister Margaret has been gone for many more years so I have no way of knowing how true that statement might be. At infrequent points my Dad had occasional run-ins with certain people, even though he was mostly adored by all the hospital staff. In these last hours, he seemed to be reliving his early days at the hospital, which was one of his favorite places to be. Dad enjoyed work the way the rest of us enjoy vacation – he was just wired that way, from the moment he and his brothers were moved during the Japanese occupation and separated from their family. You don’t grow up in the Philippines in the time that my Dad did without learning about work and drive and dedication to bettering yourself and your family.
Without any transition or prompt, he moved into talking about a parade. Something about an MCU parade, and I thought he was talking about the Macy’s Day Parade, so I brought some images up on my phone. He saw one with a flag and said it looked like the Philippines. Mom would later explain he was probably talking about Manila Central University (MCU) and their parades. Later, I showed him a few more parades from the Philippines, just as he was easing out of his brief rally. “Wow,” he said quietly. And when I showed him another one he repeated it, “Wow…” in a hushed reverence.
Andy would later tell me that when people are nearing death they sometimes see parades and it’s a way of welcoming them into their transition. When it was time for me to leave for the day, I held Dad’s hand and let him talk for a bit, but it looked like he was tiring out. I told him it was ok to close his eyes and take a nap. I told him I would see him tomorrow and then said, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said with a small weak voice, and I smiled back at him.
“Thank you,” I managed to stammer through tears and a forced smile.
“For what?”
“For giving all of us such a good life.”
I told him he could take a nap, to which he agreed. Before he closed his eyes he looked at me and said very clearly, “What are you waiting for?”
