Daddy's Last Days

Reprinted with permission from Angels On Earth magazine.

My daddy was a high school football star, the highest scorer in the state and later a halfback for Texas Christian University.  He was even offered a spot on the Chicago Bears, but he turned it down, preferring a quiet life with mama and us two kids, and working with his hands every day, fixing electronics in his shop. After retirement he specialized in restoring antique televisions and radios.  I used to love watching Daddy at his worktable, repairing some vintage machine, his big, calloused hands moving so carefully among those thin wires.  He had the same gentle touch with people.  Daddy was able to cheer me up with a wink or an I-love-you smile, or comfort me with a squeeze of his hand.

When Daddy was diagnosed with an advanced stage of cancer, I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me.  He was 91 years old, and I knew it was time to let him go.  But as the disease stole away his strength and made him so weak he could barely move or talk, I longed to make him feel as safe and secure in his last days as he's always made me feel.

We put Daddy in hospice care.  Mama, my brother, Bob, and I checked him in that first day.  Mama set up flowers and plants in the private room, Bob lined family photos on Dad's bedside table where he could see them easily, and I slipped an extra pillow under his head.  He stared out the window fixedly, I wasn't even sure if he knew we were in the room.

"I don't know if any of this helps, Daddy, " I whispered to him, touching his outstretched hand.  "I just wish you could tell me what you need."  He squeezed my fingers with a familiar firmness, and our eyes met for a moment.  Then his gaze lost focus and drifted away.  Something brushed my leg, and I looked down.  Sitting at my feet was a plump gray and white tabby cat.  She looked up at me, eyes closing in a friendly cat-smile, then rubbed her soft, furry side against my leg.

"That must be the cat the nurse at the front desk was telling us about," Mama said, bending down to scratch her under the chin.  "Her name is Hope."

"She lives here?"  I asked.  Bob picked the cat up and laid her carefully on the bed at Daddy's feet.

"For some time now.  Apparently she has a way with sick people," he said.

Hope glanced at Daddy then made her way purposely up the sheets, lay down beside his legs and began purring. A smile crept over the tired lines of Daddy's face.  "Looks like she's made a new friend," Mama said.

Continued on page 2: 'Dear Lord, help me comfort him.' »