It’s been four years’ since my dad passed. Writing helps me clear my mind, and the past few weeks have been heavy with this day coming.
I wanted to write down my memories of those last few days with Dad here on earth. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll forget details. I want to be able to look back in 40 years and still remember. I don’t know if anyone will even care to read it, but for me, writing it out has been healing.
We had just come home from Alaska and everyone was feeling sick. Dad was congested on Thursday. The kids had fevers off and on, and the baby had hand-foot-and-mouth all week.
By Saturday, Dad was more tired. On Monday, after my grandmother left, he was really worn out and coughing worse. He got a Covid test that day, but results didn’t come back until Wednesday and it was negative. He just kept getting worse but thought it was a bad cold.
On Friday, his neighbor took him to MD360. They did an X-ray, saw pneumonia, gave him medicine, and sent him home.
Saturday morning, the kids and I dropped off Gatorade and soup on his back porch. He walked to the back door, looking so tired. We waved, told him we loved him, and left. That night, around midnight, he called Josh to come unlock the door for the EMTs. He could hardly catch his breath. I stayed on the phone with him until they got there and took him.
He went to GHS that night. He stayed in the ER until Sunday evening because no rooms were open. They tested him for Covid again and this time it was positive, with pneumonia in both lungs. He was on max oxygen. We texted back and forth all the time. He did breathing exercises. Some nurses were kind and attentive, others barely returned calls.
Sunday night, he finally moved from the ER to the Covid ICU. He was so tired, but still tried to put on a brave face — I think to make it seem like it wasn’t as bad as it really was.
Monday morning, I FaceTimed him with the kids. Josh dropped off a folder of Bible verses and family pictures. We had to call multiple times to make sure they actually took it to his room. Earlier, we had also taken a toiletries bag with clean underwear and clothes, but he never got to use them.
That night, around midnight, I got a phone call. This time it wasn’t a nurse, it was Dad. I knew then it was serious. He told me it was time to go on the ventilator. He cried and said, “I am so tired.” His doctor was on speaker, explaining everything very clinically. I cried with Dad and told him it was okay, that I understood. Josh called Faith so she could talk to him too. After we hung up, we accidentally called him back — and he called right back. That gave me one more chance to talk to him. I told him how thankful I was for how close we had gotten, how much we loved him. I knew then that would probably be the last time I’d hear his voice. I cried myself to sleep that night, calling out “Daddy” until I couldn’t stay awake anymore.
Josh and I both had Covid too. I was congested and in a fog with everything happening. Josh had pneumonia in both lungs and was in really bad shape.
Tuesday morning, the kids went to Faith’s so Mom could watch them and Josh and I could rest a few hours. The Red Cross released JT from deployment and he flew in that day.
That evening, on the way home from picking up the kids, the doctor called. She told me Dad wouldn’t make it through the night. She was close to my age, but so compassionate. She gave me all the options and explained that the only thing keeping him alive was insulin every 30 minutes. They were about to max out the dosage, and it could stop his heart.
She told me that if we chose comfort care — taking him off everything and letting him go naturally — Faith and I would be allowed to come. We knew Dad would not want to be alone. We were so thankful for the chance to be there.
At 11 that night, the nurse called again and said, “It’s time.”
I drove up by myself and met Faith and JT. Only three immediate family members were allowed. Josh stayed home with the kids — he was too sick to come.
In the ICU, the nurses had taken the tube out of his neck and cleaned him up as best they could. He still had wires and lines everywhere. His body was already cold. They had paralyzed him from the shoulders down to give his lungs a rest.
They said he could still hear us. His kidneys had already shut down.
I sat right by his shoulder, stroking his face, telling him how good he looked. And he did. Dad always looked young for 59. Even then, it felt like he was the one comforting us, not the other way around. That was just Dad.
Faith sat beside me holding his hand, and JT sat on his other side praying. I hope he heard us. The nurses let us stay for five hours, though it felt like ten minutes. We shared memories, told him how much we loved him. JT prayed over him. Joshua was able to call on speaker and say goodbye. I remember laying on his chest, saying to myself, ” Take it all in..” because I knew that would be the last time I would ever be with my dad earth-side.
The nurse and doctor that night were truly sent from God. Just being allowed in the Covid ICU was a miracle.
Once they stopped the medications, his heart rate slowly dropped over 45 minutes. It’s traumatizing to sit by your dad and watch his life fade away. His body grew colder, his heart slowed. Finally, I told him, “It’s okay, you don’t have to fight for us anymore.” Right then, he went. The line on the monitor went flat, and the long beep filled the room.
That’s when I know he saw Jesus face to face. His body went gray, but I know his soul was free.
Afterward, they asked us about his wishes. Thankfully, God had prepared us. Months earlier, in casual conversation, Dad told me and Faith he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread in Montana, where he was born. That gave us peace.
One thing no one prepares you for is leaving the hospital carrying your dad’s belongings, but not him. His shoes, clothes, wallet, and phone stuffed into a bag — it was gut-wrenching.
Outside, Mom, JT, and Todd and Ashley were waiting. They carried me home.
I just pray he heard us, and knew we were with him the whole time.
Losing a parent so young, let’s be real, is traumatizing. They’re missing so much. Levi was never able to meet my dad. Adleigh will only remember him by pictures. He will never be able to witness a lot of firsts with all the kids. I see daughters with their fathers out and about, and I yearn for that. I yearn for a father’s hug, a father’s encouragement. I’m extremely thankful I have a heavenly father who cares. It’s been four years now since Dad left this earth and went to Jesus. I write so I can remember. I don’t ever want to forget my dad.
Rooted Westward 
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