Dad: I Never Thought It Would Be Like This

Dear Dad,

I sure didn't know what to expect: did you?

Not sure what I expected—maybe I thought that you were going to go quickly and peacefully, like Mom did—but you’re right, this has been long and excruciating. Don’t get me wrong: yes, it’s gone on too long and it has been horrible for all of us, but please don’t ever think that you were a nuisance or a burden. Oh my gosh, no, you were never a burden, to any of us. I know that to be true.

Instead, because of COVID, we can’t visit you as a family; rather, hospital rules dictate one person at a time, once daily, for one hour. Everyone wants their turn. See? You’re hardly a burden when there’s a line-up to get in to see you. But that’s it. Your kids, your grandkids, even your great-grandkid, we all want to visit you. We all want to be by your side. We want to return to you the magnificent support you've given all of us.

We all know you're dying. Your heart, your lungs, none of your organs aren’t working the way they should. You’re hooked up to oxygen and IV medication. You’ve told us you’re not in pain, but we see you—you’re fading away. Daddo, you are dying. You know that.

I wish it would happen quicker. I’m sorry—that makes me sound like a terrible daughter, doesn’t it? I hope that one of these times when you doze off, you’ll drift off to eternity. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. You’ve even told me you’d rather not wake up.

I think I understand.

You played baseball until you were 83 and hockey until your late 70s. You were a natural gifted athlete and a magnificent role model. You coached countless hockey players who went on to glory. And now, your legs don’t work. You’re right. That seems particularly cruel.

Yesterday—and you didn’t know this—I brought two small hot cocoas for us to have together. You were somehow always surprised and overjoyed when I’d show up at your apartment with a couple of cups of cocoa, and I would always drink mine quickly while you managed to savor each sip. It was always our special daddy-daughter treat.

I left the two untouched cups of cocoa on your hospital tray. I had to force myself to avoid looking at them during my visit, because I knew the tears would start and I’d be sobbing uncontrollably. Instead, I just held your hand and smiled at you. Could you feel that little peck I gave you before I left? I brushed your hair back and kissed your forehead. Your hair is like Mom’s now, white as snow.

I guess I’m writing this letter because I honestly don’t know what else to do. We’re at the point where anything the doctors are suggesting—the procedures, the ‘fixes’—aren’t going to do much to help things. They might make you more comfortable, but they’re not meant to prolong your life. And I don’t think you want that anyway, do you?

I can't even think of how to finish this, because for once in my life I’m at a loss for words. Imagine me, your daughter, silent for once? Words don’t apply here. I have my phone here beside me. I’m not sure what I’ll say when the phone rings, because it will. I know. It’s not long now, in the scheme of things. But it’s taking forever. And I really didn't know what to expect.