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Last conversations

One of Dad's duties: driving the Army Chaplin
Time passes; our memories wear away.  So I’m scribbling memories on paper to file them in boxes in my mind.

Friday marks an indelible day.  It’s when my Dad left his earth suit.  He’d been living with congestive heart failure for a number of years.  We were never totally surprised to receive the “Dad’s been transported to the hospital” phone call.  This was just another of th0se occasions. 

Visiting at the hospital, Dad looked fine or at least a fine as you can with IVs and monitors.  We joked and he gave the nurses a hard time.  He enjoyed the teasing banter.

Memorial Day weekend was our annual slog to go camping in Central Oregon.  My brother and I decided we were going to stay home.  It just made sense, Dad was in the hospital.  Uh, oh…Dad was fit to be tied.  He told us we were not to change our plans.  If we didn’t go camping, he’d give us the what for.  Reluctantly, we agreed to his wishes.

Leaving the room, I commented to my brother, “One of these times Dad won’t be leaving the hospital.”  A very somber statement; that was the last time I saw my Dad.

Following his desire, we packed our tent trailer with the necessary junk.  Arriving at Fall River late in the afternoon, we set up our glam camp and enjoyed cocktail hour by the fire.  I talked with Dad before we left; told him I’d phone around bedtime, if the cell reception was okay.  It was always on the sketchy side.

Evening lingered, so I went to the trailer to unearth my phone to call Dad.  I had crystal clear reception that night.  I rang his room.  He answered straight away and sounded good.  We chatted about our drive over the mountain, what he had for dinner, normal trivial stuff.  I remember Dad saying, “I bet the stars are beautiful there.” 

I stepped out the trailer door, looked at the sky and said, “Yes, they are brilliant.” 

They always are when you have uninterrupted skies.  I gave him my love, said goodnight and assured him I’d call in the morning.

Joining the others around the campfire, I passed on the news Dad was doing well and was about to go to sleep.

Bodily functions called, which meant a short trek to ode de outhouse.  I took the lantern and left.  On my way back, my husband met me and put his arms around me, “He’s gone…we just got the phone call.” 

“No…it can’t be.  I was just talking with him.”  He held me tight and let me cry. 

That was May 23rd, 11 years ago.  I can think about and share amusing, quirky things my Dad did with no sadness.  Writing this brings a few tears and a content smile; treasuring our last conversation, which is placed in the box labeled “Dad” in the archives of my mind.

Missy



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