April 11, 1987 Pulley Nursing Home My Father’s Eyes
“
It won’t be long now. I’m sorry son.” I sat at the edge of my Father’s bed, head down, eyes watering,
reluctant to accept the words I was hearing from the Doctor.
The Doctor left the room, quietly closing the door
behind him, leaving me to the loneliness of my dying Father’s last moments.
As I looked into his face,
that wrinkled brow, the silver stubs of hair on his chin, I thought back to happier times. Times when he lifted me over
his head and sat me on his shoulders so that I felt like a giant, watching his feet traverse the pavement with huge, sure
strides, the jolt of each step assuring me that I was safe from the dogs that barked from behind the fences, the cars that zoomed
past on the street and the others we met along the way who had to look up at me to say hello. I thought of the days in
the country, eating a picnic lunch of warm ham and yellow potato salad as he shooed the flies and the bees away. Sitting
on a hillside until the day grew dim and eyes drooped with sleep. I remembered those hard times when he struggled to keep
his family fed, when he cried himself to sleep some nights. I remembered the lessons he taught me from his understanding
of life, how God was the most important part of life while alive and the most comforting in death. I let my thoughts wander
back to those days of wonderful adventures traveling in the mountains of West Virginia. I recalled the smile on Odie’s
face, so pleased with his first set of false teeth, I thought of Rebecca, where she may be today, if she ever left the mountains.
She would have loved to be here at this moment I was sure, to write her name on a get well card.
Now I sat
alone, another of life’s chapters nearly written, another ending unresolved. Another tear to cry.
My
Father was dying and I was helpless to save him. He didn’t even know I was in the room.. he didn’t know that
I was crying because of the pain I had caused him. Pain that I could not even ask forgiveness for, heartache that would
last until his final breath and beyond. In my foolishness I had strayed from him, believing that I would find happiness
with rascals, unbelievers. I lost sight of his teachings, of his truths. I traveled with unsavory ones, liars and thieves.
Like a nomad, constantly looking for that which had been right here all along.
His eyes curiously avoided mine,
even as they would open now and again. He laid unmoving, unrecognizing. My heart pounded inside my chest like a drum, breath shortened,
lips quivering. I was not ready for this. Where the hell was everyone? Didn’t they understand what was happening
here? He could die at any moment, alone except for my wretched soul weeping beside him.
Suddenly a bell rang
in the hallway and I heard Doctors being called by name, to respond Stat. I opened the door slightly and peered into the
hallway as white coats with frantic faces flew by. Opening the door further to look down the long sterile corridor I saw
them rush into a room
several doors down from my Fathers. I wished they were coming here, I remember thinking. Perhaps that would have given
me new hope. Sadly no one came rushing into the room, not a single white coat. I guess they knew what I didn’t want
to accept as truth... that Father would soon be gone. I slowly shut the door and looked at him once more,
quiet in his repose, an image of peace, resolved in his faith and biding his last moments in dreams. I kneeled beside
him as a child saying his nightly prayers. I held his lifeless hand as he stumbled in and out of slumber. Soon I began
to hear the lonely sounds of death emanating from his short breaths. Finally, one last sigh, a faint gasp and he was
gone. . Nearly twenty years have passed since then. Time enough for healing, for forgetting. Still, there is that
image preserved forever in my mind of my Father lying on that hospital bed waiting patiently for death while I aguishly
hoped that he would open his eyes again, just once, so that I could say “ I’m sorry!” I repeated it over
and over as I kneeled beside him those twenty years ago, but I don’t know if he ever heard me. If only he would
have looked into my eyes. His eyes would have spoken to me. They could have told me that he understood, that he forgave
me. That through all the suffering I caused, he still loved me. Alas, after these long years, I have come to realize
that Father chose not to look into my eyes after all. That he was fearful of what they might say to me. The
End Copyright 2007 by John Malcolm Pouch
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