We sang to our father as he lay dying.
He'd learned he had cancer only weeks before. Before we had time to
process the news he'd entered the hospital for the last time. When I
flew down he'd already gone into a coma.
He never awoke. But they say even
people in comas can hear. So we spoke to him. Mom kissed him at
bedtime, the three quick smooches that had been their routine for
decades. He kissed her back once when I was there. It was his last
conscious action.
And we sang to him. My brothers and I
like to sing. If I may say so, we're good at it. Among my earliest
memories is singing along with a Disney record we got in a gas
station promotion. We sang in the station wagon on our epic western
summer trips. Once two of my brothers and I went camping and a
biblical thunderstorm blew up. It was so bad the park ranger drove
up to rescue us. He found us singing.
Then we sang to Dad in his death bed.
I remember singing Summertime, from Gershwin's Porgy and Bess, and
Old Man River. I bet we sang something from Spike Jones, his
favorite. We sang Amazing Grace. Nurses and aides sometimes stood
outside the room and listened. Whether Dad knew we were doing it is
beyond my knowledge. I hope he did. But of course we were singing
for ourselves as well, so it does not matter much.
This week we made the pilgrimage to
that same hospital, this time for Mom. She got tangled up with her
walker and fell, breaking her elbow. Every time I walked in I
remembered going for dad. It was a sad, heavy feeling. Seeing mom
laying there did not help.
Here's what does help: having brothers
to sing with. Having a wife who has known my mom for forty years and
knowing they love each other. Having decent, kind adult children who
made it their business to visit Mom. Having a church family that
checked with me and prayed the whole time. Seeing the look of
gratitude on Mom's face every time I walked through the door. I'm
nothing special, but in Mom's eyes I am, and that's what mattered in
the moment.
My wife and I had gone to high school with one of the
nurses. I thought she was pretty cute back in the day. I did not
recognize her this week. She still looked good, but I do not
remember faces well. She, however, recognized us. And as we left
the hospital for the last time before her shift ended she pulled me
aside. She told me she was glad Linda and I were still together.
Then she said, “One of the aides remembers your family. She said
you're the Singing Family.”
I guess we are.
