In Memory of Horace

This week marks the twentieth anniversary of my father’s death. It is a date that I usually let slip from my memory. I don’t want to remember the day he died or the two days prior as he lay in a hospital bed, while I sat by his side day and night unable to find the words to say goodbye. I prefer to remember him animating my childhood stuffed animals, bringing them to life in my imagination. I want to see the twinkle in his eye when he told a trickster tale. I want to remember his generosity, especially to those who were very young and undervalued by others. I want the images in my head to be of his love of the natural world, including animate and inanimate beings.

Yet, too many nights as I try to drift into sleep I see images of him during his last days. I replay the early morning telephone call from the doctor. “Your father had a massive heart attack last night. He is in the intensive care ward now. We don’t expect him to live more than a day or two.”

My heart still races when I recall how I rushed to his side, finding him engulfed in beeping machines and an entanglement of electrical monitors. Years earlier he and my mother had written their living wills and discussed their wishes with me. Now I had to tell the nurses and doctors to remove all the equipment and transfer him to a private room where he and I could be alone.

I wish that I could forget watching helplessly as he shared what it felt like as his organs failed to function. When he turned to me and said, “This is just like being born,” he was teaching me what it was like to die. He was a penultimate learner and teacher. I am so grateful to have had him as my father.