A Father's Kiss

With my hand in his, we sit gazing out the hospital window. My father propped in his bed, I to his right in a recliner. Though he hasn’t given up fighting the disease and I haven’t given up fighting for hope, I sense time is limited, each moment precious.

We wait, in silence, for sunrise.

The November sky is uncharacteristically clear. Night-greys are giving way to the pinks of early dawn, a canvas of colors, in varying shades, swirled together with skill and precision.

The sensation of my hand in his pulls me back to a time when I drew courage and strength from his touch. As a little girl the simple act of placing my hand in his provided safety and security. Now my grip is stronger; mine the hand offering reassurance.

An orange glow of anticipation is cast over the street scene seven stories below as the sun moves closer to the crest of the horizon. If I stand, I can see morning commuters going about their day like any other. Ordinary cannot be used to describe our lives. Because of cancer we are suspended in this time and place. Ordinary has been put on “pause”.

I lean back against the stiff upholstery of the hospital chair. The night was difficult and long; sleep disrupted, as my father’s body ravaged by the chemotherapy and radiation treatments, fights the transplanted stem cells.

I smile as I think of the need for the nurses throughout the dark nighttime hours. Even in the midst of pain and weakness, my father thanked them for caring for him. They had smiled briefly in response, refreshed by his gratitude.

Now the room is quiet in spite of the early-morning-busyness beyond the door. I gently squeeze the hand of my childhood-comforter.

Tears strangely absent, my throat released from the usual choke-hold of emotions, I break the silence. “I love you, Dad.”

A faint squeeze comes in response. He opens his eyes revealing the strong light of his spirit, tenuously held within a body on borrowed time. “I love you too, Bon,” he says with effort. Radiation has damaged his vocal chords, his voice barely above a whisper.

The morning sun breaks from the horizon, rising in its fullness. Streams of light, reflecting off the windows of surrounding buildings, fill our room with brilliance and warmth. As if given a holy assignment the sun caresses our faces, pushing cancer to the periphery of our thoughts.

As the brilliance fades to a normal hue, I turn to my Dad. “Wow. That was amazing.” I whisper.

He nods and smiles. A simple phenomenon of nature, recognized as a gesture of love from Heaven. Received like a kiss from our Father.

Releasing my dad’s hand, I move to the foot of his bed and try to help by massaging the atrophying muscles in his legs. After closing his eyes, his breathing evens out and he dozes off. A merciful albeit temporary, respite from the pain.

With the pungent aroma of the massage oil filling the room, a picture of my Dad’s life wafting heavenward like a fragrant offering, overwhelms me.

I smile, again, in spite of the tears.