I was not well prepared for it, seeing my father in this state.
Since my last in-person visit with him five months prior, the ugly villain Mesothelioma had altered the physical frame of this good man I called Dad.
The disease, spawned and fueled through years of exposure to asbestos would rob yet another household of yet another industrial craftsman before their time.
I was thankful for the good people of Hospice, seeing to it that Dad’s heart desire would be realized. Of spending his final days under the same roof at home with my mom, his wife of 57 years.
Herself weakened through added hardships of her own, my mother had grown unable to see to Dad’s needs on the off days between Hospice visits.
That large host of adult children whose role ultimately involves the care of an ailing parent comprises a sector of humanity occupying a precious, even sacred, space. Arranging now a mattress and bedding on the carpeted floor alongside Dad’s bed I was entering such a space. Difficult as some moments became, I afterward reflected on the special honor God had truly afforded me.
Music helped.
Taking up a spot on a simple stool at my father’s bedside I settled in with an acoustic guitar. The sessions of strumming and offering up melodies from yesteryear ignited a spark of life all their own. I sensed my dad’s heart being sweetly moved. Even as potent pain meds would escort him again and again to either edge of consciousness, musical pieces themselves introduced to the soul their own unique medicinal properties. Each of his favored set of lyrics – several he had been heard humming during my childhood – were, I prayed, bringing him an added measure of peace. The Old Rugged Cross – Victory in Jesus – Amazing Grace.
The folks specializing in personality types would classify me as melancholic. Occasionally, sitting perched on the guitar stool, I caught my mind projecting forward. Should the passing of my own closing days be drawn out over a bit of time, someone might think to flavor up the environment, smuggle a little music into the room.
In the company of sacred sounds, dad lay quiet. Soon he would begin bridging the divide, with God. Heaven songs to receive him.
©2023 Jerry Lout