In A Positive Light

Back on May 18, Marc – the man who found Tresi, the Luxemburg woman whose family had practically adopted my father as their own during the war – came to Chicago for a visit. At the top of his list of things to do was a visit with my father.

I brought Marc in to the visiting room at the Veterans' Home, and Dad's face lit up with a great big smile, the first such smile I had seen him smile in months, and, little did I know at that moment, the last I would see forever.

••--••--••--••--••

My mobile phone jostled me out of a deep sleep. I presumed it was my co-worker calling to tell me I had overslept or something. I looked at the display on the phone before I answered; my brother's name glowed at me in the dark. I looked at the alarm clock on the hotel room nightstand: 3:31 am.

"Dad's taken a turn," he said. "His body has stopped sending blood to his hands and feet. The nurses here say that means he has probably a maximum of 48 hours."

"Keep me updated," I said at the end of the two-minute conversation. In the fog of sleep interrupted, and of the shock of reality at the other end of the line, I estimated that I would have finished the job at hand there in Dallas and been back home at the scheduled time before 48 hours were up. I got back in bed and managed only another 20 minutes of sleep in the next two hours.

By 9:00 am I was in the room where our work was being done, waiting on an attendee of the meeting to show up for his videotaped interview. With a few minutes to spare before he showed up, I thought to call my brother for an update.

"He's still hanging in there. He's not talking but he is awake and responsive."

"Okay," I said. "Tell him I love him."

"You should tell him yourself," my brother said. "I'll put my phone to his ear. He can hear you."

I paused for a long moment, seized with my fear of the known. "I can't," I said.

My brother's voice cracked, something I have rarely heard in my lifetime. "Yes you can. It may be the last time you get to tell him."

"The client will be here any minute. I'll be a mess."

"Your client will understand. I'm putting the phone to his ear." He wasn't demanding…he was pleading.

"Okay," I said.

In the distance from his phone I heard my brother's voice giving me the O.K. to speak. My voice was immediately at the edge, my throat threatening to close tight. "Hi, Dad," I croaked. "I love you. Don't hang on, okay? If it's time to go, you go." It was all I could say. I choked back the tears that needed to come.

My brother put the phone back to his own ear. "He heard you. He definitely heard you."

I made him promise to call me the minute anything changed, and then I had to excuse myself from my co-worker. In the Men's Room I lost the battle against the tears. It's not that I'm afraid to cry; I didn't want to do it right before meeting our client because I know that after I have the kind of cry my body was fighting for, I look like a prizefighter the day after a loss – puffy, swollen bags under frightfully bloodshot eyes. So it was brief. It eased the pressure, so to speak, and I cleaned myself up. No bags, no red, swollen vessels.

But then the thought set in. I had to get home. Now.

It was a matter of juggling possibilities, but once I found the earliest flight I could take, we worked out the rest of the day. I went to my room, packed my bag, checked out of the hotel and went back to our interview room. I worked until the last interview was finished, around 2:45 pm. Then I grabbed my bag and a cab, and I went to the airport.

Just as he had promised, at 4:00 pm, just before my flight was to begin boarding, my brother called.

"He's still hanging on. His breathing is very shallow, and he's no longer responsive, but he's still with us."

"Okay," I said. "I'll get there as soon as I can. But tell him not to wait for me."

Three hours later, around 7:15, when my plane landed in Chicago, I called him for an update. Still breathing, shallow but steady. Still alive. I still had to wait for luggage, then get a cab to the office, and then get in my car and drive to the Veterans' Home…another three hours, yet.

As I waited for the cab I had ordered, my phone rang. In the display, I saw my brother's name. I knew.

"He's gone," said my brother. "It was very peaceful…his breathing just got shallower and shallower until he stopped."

When I ended the call, I felt myself at a tipping point. On one side, relief that Dad's pain and discomfort were over, that he was no longer trapped in a body that was no longer at his service; on the other, guilt. Had I dropped everything at 3:30, had I called my co-worker and told him I was going home to my father, leaving him to figure out how to finish our assignment, I could have been at Dad's side by noon or earlier.

But I stopped. I remembered the smile that broke across his face when Marc walked into the visiting room at the Veterans' Home, where I imagined the memories – of the trip to France and Italy, of his visit with Tresi, the best thing I ever did – that must have raced across his mind as Marc approached him. I brought that smile to him, and I will remember it forever.

When we left that day, Marc and me, I kissed Dad on top of his head, and I told him that I love him. My bases were covered. The guilt that threatened me dissolved away.

By the time I was on my way down to meet them, my siblings had already met with the coroner who had given them instructions and assurances for what would happen next, and they called to tell me to meet them at a restaurant near where two of my sisters live.

Over our meal, my brother said to me at one point, "I don't know what you said to Dad when I put my phone to his ear, but right after you spoke to him, he closed his eyes and stopped responding." My sisters nodded their agreement.

I still have mixed feelings over being told that. Did my approval satisfy him and give him the permission to go? Was it just a coincidence?

In the days since Dad died, we have all experienced an uplifting sense of relief, of release. He had been sick and in decline for so long, we were prepared for his final moments, both emotionally and procedurally, and we reacted somewhat like a machine, the power to which had just been switched on. Arrangements were made the next day, and made easily with the help of the funeral director who had handled Mom's arrangements, and who was a friend – and barbershop customer – of Dad's. Since then we have had time to focus clearly on the most important tasks – notifying family and friends of the funeral arrangements, and remembering Dad in the positive light that shone on him in everything he did and on everyone he touched. Since Thursday there has been more laughter than tears over the memories of life with our father, and I think that's the way everyone should be remembered after they’ve passed on.

The world is indeed a darker place without him.