Goodbyes

The floorboards creaked as I tip-toed around the bed and quietly slipped in next to him.  My arm would not quite reach his girth. 

“I’ll be back before you know it. On Friday.”

No response.

“I love you Daddy,” I whispered.

Nothing.  His silence. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow.  I would not see him again for five days.  Shouldn’t that make him happy?  My return? It was my leaving that was unbearable for him. Earlier, I had cracked the door and sounding as light as possible, “Rise and shine!”  Surely, his signature call to wake would arouse his humor and his aging body.

I always had trouble leaving too. Especially, when both my mother and father became ill and traded trips to the hospital.  It was my mother now who needed the physical care.  Between my brother, sister and I, we made sure that our parents were never alone.  During the week, I taught and returned each Friday night until sometime on Sunday.  My father always rose early on Friday morning and sat near the window in wait.  It was the Sundays that we all dreaded. 

My mother confided that she had been having recurring dreams in which she had died.  Her condition was worsening.  My conversations with my siblings were mostly related to medicine, appointments and such. We all couldn’t say aloud, what we were thinking.   I would soon be without my mother.  Each Sunday, the goodbyes got longer and longer for I knew it might be my last. 

The final time I was with my mother, she lay in a hospital bed, mostly sleeping hour after hour.  I had quite a drive ahead of me.  I had to leave, but I didn’t want to leave. I roused her, gently leaned in kissing her.

“I love you Mummy.  Don’t go anywhere without telling me. OK, don’t go anywhere without telling me.” My code for please say goodbye, before you leave.

On the night that she passed, she tried to call me.  I was watching my First Graders  at a Christmas Concert.  I was protected from the heartache of goodbye.

Following my mother’s death, nothing changed.  Each Sunday, I slipped into bed beside my father and whispered, “I love you my sweet Daddy.  I’ll be back on Friday.”  And each Sunday, he lay motionless and silent.

I guess we all are troubled by goodbyes.