I Miss You Dad

Recently, a team of neuroscientists stumbled on something unexpected. The researchers were conducting an electroencephalography (EEG) scan on a patient to detect and treat seizures. When the patient unexpectedly died, the EEG machine kept running. As a result, these scans unintentionally documented the last moments of brain activity from a dying person.

The scan identified changes to the patient’s brain wave patterns just before and just after his heart stopped. These changes indicated decreased activity in the brain’s alpha, beta, and theta bands. However, gamma band activity increased. Although not conclusive, increased gamma wave activity?may indicate memory recall. For example, similar brain oscillations occur?during meditation and dreaming.

The concept of life after death and the role our memories play is part of our collective imagination. Some who have had near-death experiences report intense memory recall?often described as a?panoramic review?of one’s life. This phenomenon is known as life recall. The first-ever recording of a dying brain may be scientific evidence that our lives may indeed “flash” before our eyes.

Certainly, thoughts of death and the possibility of an afterlife are common. Especially for those who have experienced loss. I am no different.

Throughout my life I have gone on many adventures with my dad. Once when I was young, we traveled to the West Coast. It was a typical beach day. Sun, sand, waves, and undertows. I was standing out thigh deep in the surf when a large wave came crashing in. I was knocked off my feet and instantly pulled out with the current. I know this all happened quickly. However, for me, everything was in slow motion. I felt weightless in the water, but I did not have the strength to get back on my feet. At that moment of helplessness, I felt someone grab my wrist and I was quickly pulled from the water. It was my dad. Looking directly into my eyes he said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.”

When I was in third grade, my dad took me hiking on Mount Holy Cross. We were going to climb it from the west approach with several other hikers. The trip required that we stay for two nights at a campsite. We hiked for an entire day and then broke camp. The next morning, we rose early to summit before coming back to the base camp. The weather was calm ― sunny, but cold. As we reached a boulder field, we found that the rocks were iced over, making them almost impossible to climb. On the side of the ridge was a snowpack, so we decided to make our way there and hike along its edge. As the youngest hiker in the group, I was farthest out toward the end of the snowpack. What I didn’t know, is that I was walking on snow that was attached to the crest but was hanging over the side ― meaning I was on a layer of snow with nothing under it. As we moved along the ridge, I looked over its edge, and saw just how far up we were. Suddenly, I felt the ground give way beneath my feet. I was falling. I felt weightless as I sank through the snow. But just as quickly I felt a hand grasp my wrist and pull me up. It was my dad. Looking directly into my eyes he said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.”

At the end of my fifth-grade school year, I was helping my dad outside. Although I don’t recall what it was exactly, I remember something was caught in one of the large trees in our yard. Dad got the ladder and extended it. However, it was just short of the branch that he was trying to rest it on. Determined to clear the object, he told me to go up the ladder while he held it in place. After dislodging the object, I started back down. However, I missed a step and started to fall. I really don’t remember how far I fell, but I didn’t hit the ground. My dad caught me with one arm while holding the ladder with the other. He looked directly into my eyes and said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.”

Every summer after we moved to Kansas, dad and I would weed eat the entire area around the two septic ponds at the Chihowa Retreat Center. It was an all-day affair. We were about four hours into the work, and I was weed eating near the edge of one of the ponds. I saw my dad start to move toward me at a quick pace. However, I really didn’t think much of it. In addition to the weed eater noise, I was wearing hearing protection. As he rapidly approached me, he picked up a nearby shovel and before I knew it, he used it to kill a full-size rattle snake just a few feet from me. I quickly turned off my weed eater and as he caught his breath; he looked directly into my eyes and said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.”

In 2014, I took my dad on a trip to Colorado. After his first stroke he never fully recovered, but at that time he still could travel. We went to Estes Park to do some camping and sightseeing. Although I certainly wanted to spend time with my dad, I also planned the trip to give my mom a much-needed break from being his primary caregiver. Once we got to our campsite, I set up the tent and fixed supper while dad told stories, many I already had heard. After dinner, we sat around the campfire and chatted before finally going to sleep. Our campsite was up a small hill. Below us was the campground restroom. The hill was paved, but steep enough that dad could not use his walker. Instead, he would need to use his wheelchair. I don’t recall the specific time, but it was a full moon. I woke up to the sound of movement outside the tent. There, I found my dad walking around the back of the jeep on his way to the restroom. I got dad into his wheelchair, and we started to head down the hill. It must have been early in the morning because the dew was thick, and the pavement was slick. We started to slide down the hill and were picking up speed. My dad was yelling and all I could do was hold on and drive my heals into the ground the best I could. We passed the restroom, but finally came to a stop. I was sweating, dad was yelling, and both of our hearts were beating fast. I locked the wheels of his chair and came around to the front. I looked directly into his eyes and said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.” He took a deep breath, smiled, and told me he loved me.

In January 2021, I had the pleasure of taking dad to get his COVID shots. It was a great adventure. As we drove to the VA Hospital in Kansas City, Missouri, I thought about how much I enjoyed riding with my dad. It was not until I was older that I really came to appreciate the time I got to spend driving with him. After his appointment, we made our way back to the truck. I positioned his wheelchair just like I did when I picked him up at his home. However, this time he could not reach the seat. I could not figure out the problem and then he started to shake as he struggled to get into the truck. I don’t know why, but I moved the wheelchair to try and help him in but could not get a good position. Then I realized we were in trouble. He fell back into my arms, and I was holding him, with no wheelchair within reach. It was not easy, but eventually we made it a couple steps together to the wheelchair. Once safe in the chair, I scratched my head because I was dumbfounded as to why he could not reach here, but he could when I picked him up. Then it hit me. I parked parallel to my mom’s sidewalk, which gave my dad just a few more inches of height. I looked for a curb in the front circle drive of the hospital, then closed the truck and wheeled my dad over to the location and told him to hang tight while I drove over there. I pulled up right next to the curb, which was six inches higher than the road. I got out of the truck and went over to my dad. Looking directly into his eyes, I said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.” He smiled and said he was not worried about that.

My dad died in September 2021. His condition and quality of life had deteriorated dramatically. Dad never feared death, but he once told me that he would prefer to die at home. We were fortunate to have the ability to place dad on hospice, and my sister graciously opened her home to him. On the second day of home hospice, I was sitting near my dad when he tried to speak. His voice was very light and often hard to make out. At this point, he could only really open his eyes and attempt to smile and talk. It was hard to make out, but I heard him ask where he was. I told him that he was home. He smiled as best he could and mouthed, “thank you.” I squeezed his hand, leaned in, and spoke directly into his ear and said, “mom would not be happy if I didn’t come back with you.” His eyes got wide, and he smiled. Then he mouthed, “I love you.”

These moments of true love are what I miss most. I sometimes wonder what panoramic life recall of my dad experienced at the time of his earthly death. I have no doubt it included moments with my mom and certainly picturesque images of his children that he cherished. I’d also like to think that some of those moments most meaningful to me also were part of what he remembered. Although, I am sure he enjoyed his panoramic review, I pray and know that he ran to the Father, he fell into grace, he was done hiding, and had no reason to wait.

Of course, the life my dad lived and the time I spent beside him is much more than just a few short stories or connections. My dad’s love for me and the rest of his family was extravagant to the point that sometimes it doesn't make sense to me. I often wonder if I’ll ever comprehend the extent of his love.

This level of love is of course similar to that which God shows us. God is love. My dad often told me to keep company with God and learn a life of love. “Observe how Christ loved us,” he would say. From this I learned that God’s love is not cautious, but extravagant. God didn't love in order to get something from us, but to give everything of himself to us. My dad loved like that, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish for a little more time with him. I miss you dad.?