Monday, May 4, 2009
All I Remember
8:27 PM
When my father spoke to me, he always began the conversation with
"Have I told you yet today how much I adore you?" The expression of
love was reciprocated and, in his later years, as his life began to visibly
ebb, we grew even closer.... if that were possible.
At 82 he was ready to die, and I was ready to let him go so that his
suffering would end. We laughed and cried and held hands and told
each other of our love and agreed that it was time. I said, "Dad, after
you've gone I want a sign from you that you're fine." He laughed at the
absurdity of that; Dad didn't believe in reincarnation. I wasn't positive I
did either, but I had had many experiences that convinced me I could
get some signal "from the other side."
My father and I were so deeply connected I felt his heart attack in my
chest at the moment he died. Later I mourned that the hospital, in their
sterile wisdom, had not let me hold his hand as he had slipped away.
Day after day I prayed to hear from him, but nothing happened. Night
after night I asked for a dream before I fell asleep. And yet four long
months passed and I heard and felt nothing but grief at his loss. Mother
had died five years before of Alzheimer's, and, though I had grown
daughters of my own, I felt like a lost child.
One day, while I was lying on a massage table in a dark quiet room
waiting for my appointment, a wave of longing for my father swept over
me. I began to wonder if I had been too demanding in asking for a sign
from him. I noticed that my mind was in a hyper-acute state. I
experienced an unfamiliar clarity in which I could have added long
columns of figures in my head. I checked to make sure I was awake and
not dreaming, and I saw that I was as far removed from a dreamy state
as one could possibly be. Each thought I had, was like a drop of water
disturbing a still pond, and I marveled at the peacefulness of each
passing moment. Then I thought, "I've been trying to control the
messages from the other side; I will stop that now."
Suddenly my mother's face appeared—my mother, as she had been
before Alzheimer's disease had stripped her of her mind, her humanity
and 50 pounds. Her magnificent silver hair crowned her sweet face. She
was so real and so close I felt I could reach out and touch her. She
looked as she had a dozen years ago, before the wasting away had
begun. I even smelled the fragrance of Joy, her favorite perfume. She seemed to be waiting and did not speak. I wondered how it could
happen that I was thinking of my father and my mother appeared, and I
felt a little guilty that I had not asked for her as well.
I said, "Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry that you had to suffer with that horrible
disease."
She tipped her head slightly to one side, as though to acknowledge what
I had said about her suffering. Then she smiled—a beautiful smile—and
said very distinctly, "But all I remember is love." And she disappeared.
I began to shiver in a room suddenly gone cold, and I knew in my bones
that the love we give and receive is all that matters and all that is
remembered. Suffering disappears - love remains.
Her words are the most important I have ever heard, and that moment is
forever engraved on my heart.
I have not yet seen or heard from my father, but I have no doubts that
someday, when I least expect it, he will appear and say, "Have I told
you yet today that I love you?"
