On Thanksgiving night, after almost everyone had left my parents’ house, I laid on the sofa dreading the drive home, but looking forward to the comfort of my own bed. My father was no longer lucid. He was definitely nearing the end, but I hadn’t told anyone about my dream. The dream I’d had the night before in which he died that day. We all knew it was coming soon enough, I didn’t want to upset anyone by suggesting it was going to be on the day for giving thanks. I hadn’t really thought much about it myself that afternoon. Having the entire family in one room for dinner was rare and I was caught up in the novelty of it. It wasn’t until I started thinking about the ride home that it all came flooding back. And then the conflict started. Should I stay? The day was coming to an end and he was struggling, but still alive. Was the fact that the house cleared after dinner a sign that everyone else knew he’d be there tomorrow? Should I stay or go home to rest in my comfortable bed? Not sleep. Because I didn’t really sleep anymore. I hadn’t slept for quite some time. My mother had been alone with him for most of the last month. It wasn’t until I realized the Saturday before that things had progressed enough that it was beyond her to care for him alone. I made the call to my older sister. She’d know what needed to be done. She’d arrange for someone to be there at all times. She’d make sure my mother wasn’t left alone to carry the burden of his last days by herself. I made the call on my way out. I made the call, then left my mother alone. I had plans to be somewhere else that day. I don’t even remember what those plans were. Insignificant. Any plans I had should have felt insignificant. I left my mother alone, not because I had more important things to do, but because I needed to get away from there. It was clear to me then that my father had only days left. And those days were going to be long, and tiring, and stressful, and full of pain. I wasn’t sure how I would get through those next days. I’d thought about it. I believed I’d prepared for it. But the surprise of finding him so weak that day had caught me off guard. I knew I wasn’t ready to start the countdown that day. So I left my mother alone, not caring if she was equipped for what was ahead. Just knowing I wasn’t.
I laid in the living room thinking about the dream. Thinking about that weekend morning that I left my mother alone. And feeling guilt for both. I had to stay. I didn’t really know if he was going to die that night. His death was on everyone’s minds. It was only natural for me to dream about it. People recant stories of prophetic dreams all the time, and I’ve oohed and aahed at the telling of them, but did I ever really believe they were legitimate signs? Or did I chalk them up to coincidence? I felt different when I woke that morning. Somehow that dream was different than any I’d had before. It was crisp. No fuzzy edges. No hidden meanings, or unrealistic twists. Simply a clear story from beginning to end. His end. And I remembered it. I don’t remember it now, but I remembered it then. And that alone was unusual.
My oldest brother interrupted my thoughts. My father needed to be changed and it was going to take three of us to do it.
