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My Father’s Last Breath
When it’s time to say goodbye for the very last time
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 everything you have ever known or 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 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, no needles, no pills, no tests. This is his death bed and we are around it, me, his son — his daughter, my sister — my wife, his daughter-in-law — grandchildren, great grandchildren, and the ever present hospice nurse here to keep him as comfortable as possible.
His mouth is dry. He cannot swallow. Someone swabs his lips as he gathers what’s left of his strength to move his tongue toward the precious few drops of water.
The sound track for his last night on Earth is an oxygen machine pumping purified air through transparent tubes clipped to the end of his nose.
