My dad died last week. On January 9th, to be exact. Was it expected? Well, he was 95. Did it come as a shock? Absolutely. I had a visceral reaction to his passing. I had been with him the day before because he had slept all day, had no food or drink, and the staff at the nursing home felt that he was probably coming down with pneumonia. When my husband and I arrived Monday morning, after I laid awake all night thinking we were going to get "the call," we did not find a sickly man in his bed. There was dad, awake and alert, sitting up in his rocking chair, throwing back some waffles and chugging guava juice. He did his best to get my littlest one to play peek a boo with him (a 95 year old man hiding his face under a napkin can be scary), he cracked jokes with me and Alfer, and talked about anything and everything. This man was going no where, not any time soon.
This is the last picture I took of him on that day
While we visited with him, I asked Dad if he would like to have a (priesthood) blessing. He joked about not wanting his hair messed up (he was bald), but that yes, a blessing would be nice. Alfer laid his hands on his head and blessed him to be at peace. He told him not to be afraid. And said that he was a good son. I wept audibly. As I left, I hugged him goodbye and he told me, "I am so proud of you. You're such a good girl. I'm so proud."
On Tuesday morning around 8:50 AM, Dad left this life (in a literal heap on the floor), and wasn't afraid anymore. My mom called me and I lost.my.mind. Thankfully I was alone so no one had to see me in such a state, and my husband came to get me almost immediately. We drove to the nursing home in SLC, and I was able to hug a few of my sisters, my mother, and to see him before they took him away. We participated in a military honors send off, with taps and the American flag and all the other veterans in the nursing home standing at attention. It was a very moving and emotional experience, especially for my sweet mother.
