The next time Dad dies, we'll know better what to do

It's not uncommon for us to lose elders?over the winter holidays; below is the story of my father's passing.??

The next time Dad dies, we'll know better what to do.?

Theoretically, we could have reasonably expected that his passing was imminent. He was, after all, 97 years old and, as the saying goes, the last man standing.?

When my eldest sister passed several years earlier, I had my first experience with falling entirely out of my orbit to be present to the phenomena of death.

We each have an orbit - the rituals and routines that tether us to the illusion of control in our lives.?

When death arrives, delivering us to both the grief and the transcendent glory of finality, our orbits look ridiculously simple and devoid of meaning.? ?

Perplexed by the ability of the spirit to supersede science, the doctors explained that Dad had CO2 levels that were so high that they couldn't understand how he could still be breathing. We understood him to be stubborn and expected no less in death.??

They advised us that they would remove all the machines and would leave us to surround him in a far wing of the hospital, providing us with an impromptu hospice setting.?

We needed a big room. A couple of the most rebellious grandkids smuggled in a bottle of Jameson 18-year-old whiskey. Four Generations paid tribute at Dad's bedside as we "lifted a jar," doing our best renditions of his favorite Irish jokes and singing traditional Irish songs together.?

He was in a "rally."?

When a patient who has been steadily declining has a sudden burst of energy, this is called an end-of-life rally or terminal lucidity. Throughout day one of his being off the machines, he was interactive and enjoying the party. And then he fell silent, waiting in the space that only the dearly departing understand, stubbornly awaiting the arrival of his eldest grandchild.?

After a long drive through a December snowstorm, she bounced into the room and had a final conversation, sharing with him the excitement of her recent move to the mountains in New York State.?

As he lay on his death bed, his eldest and youngest grandsons flanked him on opposite sides of the bed, with his granddaughters holding his hands. My sister and I were at the bottom of the bed with our hands on his feet.?

We knew his favorite poem was Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening," and his grandsons began to recite the poem spontaneously.?

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.? ?

His house is in the village though;? ?

He will not see me stopping here? ?

To watch his woods fill up with snow.? ?

My little horse must think it queer? ?

To stop without a farmhouse near? ?

Between the woods and frozen lake? ?

The darkest evening of the year.? ?

He gives his harness bells a shake? ?

To ask if there is some mistake.? ?

The only other sound's the sweep? ?

Of easy wind and downy flake.? ?

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,??

But I have promises to keep,? ?

And miles to go before I sleep,? ?

And miles to go before I sleep.

As his grandsons delivered the last couplet of that poem ...?

"And I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep."

... He took his final breath.?

If you are a history buff and want to know more about my father's journey in his own words, he left behind a book, which?you can find here .

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