My Father’s Last Breath

One second he was there and then… he wasn’t

NOTE: My father, Barney Ditkoff, passed away 15 years ago when he was 94. What follows is a brief story I wrote about him taking his last breath.

There is a time of life when the time of life is about to end — the time of last breaths, the time of saying goodbye to everyone and everything you have ever known and loved, the time of letting go.

This is the time my father now finds himself in.

He is flat on his back in a hospital bed, but the hospital bed is in his bedroom in West Palm Beach, Florida, which is where he has chosen to die — and will.

There will be no more calls to 911, no more paramedics, no more blood transfusions, needles, pills or tests. This is his death bed and we are around it — me, my sister, my wife, my nieces, grandchildren, great grandchildren and the ever-present hospice nurse here to keep him as comfortable as possible.

His mouth is dry. He cannot swallow.

My father, mother, sister and I at some kind of Catskills resort

Someone swabs his lips as he gathers what’s left of his strength to move his tongue toward the precious…