The Call

On Saturday evening, I got the call.  Actually, the call came in the form of three voice mails left on my cell phone because I was at a musical event and had my phone turned completely off.  The calls and messages left were from the nursing home, where my father has spent that last five years of his life.  Most of those years could not really be characterized as “living” in the sense that most of us use the word.  Oddly enough, I just posted a few days ago about my sorrow in watching my dad’s recent, rapid decline.

Getting one voice mail from the nursing home is common; getting three back-to-back in a matter of a few minutes indicated something serious.  I have been expecting this call for quite a long time.  At times I have dreaded it, at others I have longed for it, which has been the case recently.  Had the call been to inform me that, due to either illness or accident, my father had been taken to the hospital, it would certainly have anguished me.  The last thing I wanted, any of us who knew him really wanted, was for him to go through the agony of multiple trips to the hospital for procedures to prolong a life not worth living anymore.

There is a certain finality to the words “Your father passed away this evening.”  At the age of 94, the phrase is not unexpected, and as I have indicated in this case, it has quietly been hoped for by friends and family.  He certainly was ready to go and had been for a few years.  He frequently expressed his astonishment that he was still alive. “I never dreamed I’d live this long,” he said many times when we visited him.  “I don’t know why the Lord is keeping me here.”  Good question.  I don’t know the answer.  I can’t say for certain, but maybe he knows the answer . . . now.

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