Eight Years to Miss Him

It was eight years ago this day. A balmy Friday morning in Jamaica. I was sitting on the patio eating the freshest mango and papaya I had ever indulged in. But something just didn't feel right. The only way I can explain it is that I got a strange feeling that overtook me. I called home to check on my Dad, who had been hospitalized for four months before rolling me down the aisle a few days before. He was not in the rehab room where he had been, and I panicked. I finally tracked him down in the ICU. I never believed I would have to ask that question to my mother: "Is he going to die?" The answer was worse: "Yes." He had been in a coma for most of the week and his blood pressure was so dangerously low. My Mom held the phone to his ear so I could say good-bye. I thanked him for his love and his lessons. I told him I loved him. I cried in his ear. I hung up the phone to jump on a plane back to Cleveland and he died ten minutes later. I know he heard me. What a gift to be able to say good-bye. I wish it had not been so soon and he had not suffered so, but I know that he heard me. Time has not really erased the pain of that day, finding out my Dad died when I stopped for a layover in Charlotte, but
time has sharpened the lessons my Dad taught me and the love that he showed me. And that Friday morning on a beach of white sand, I learned the value of being heard and the gift of being loved.