Dearest Rachel –
It seems silly to marvel at the accuracy of scripture sometimes. I find myself reminded of some after-dinner speaker who is said to have begun a speech by pompously intoning, “As God said, and I think rightly…” One can only hope he was joking with such a line, but it’s just plausible that it was intended sincerely. I hope I never find myself talking like that.
Still, while I haven’t gone so far as to give my puny endorsement to the wisdom of God Himself, there are moments when that of Solomon catches me by surprise. There is, after all, something rather contradictory about his description of the effects of aging in that:
·Your ears will be deaf to the noise [L The doors are shut] in the streets,
Ecclesiastes 12:4, Expanded Bible
and ·you will barely hear the millstone grinding grain [L the sound of grinding decreases].
·You’ll wake up when a bird starts singing [L One rises at the sound of a bird],
·but you will barely hear singing [L and the daughters of song are brought low].
How is it that, despite your hearing failing, the slightest sounds could wake you? It seems ridiculous. And yet, more often than not, I find myself awake in the morning to Stygian blackness (not entirely unusual, given that it’s now well into December, but still), I reach for my phone to check the time, and find that it’s hardly three in the morning. Sure, I can roll over and go back to sleep – and given the mental exhaustion of the past week thus far, it’s easier than ever to do so – but the fact that I’m up at all makes me wonder how it is that I got to this point. Why am I awake in the first place, if I’m so tired?
And then I hear the buzzing on my nightstand.
Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz. And then silence.
I know that sound; it’s the vibration of my phone as it rings. I have it on silent almost all the time these days, due to the number of spam calls I get. But for all the incivility of their mere existence, they’ve not gotten so incessant that they’re calling me at this hour of the night – they’re fully aware that doing so would predispose no one to buy what they’re selling – it’s why I could turn the volume on overnight on Monday and Tuesday, just in case things took a turn for the worst with Dad. But with his seemingly improving condition, I think I forgot to consider switching it on last night.
And sure enough, when I reach for it, I see that the last four(!) calls have been from “The Folks,” as I have them listed in my phone. Despite my barely conscious state, a cold fear grips me, combined with a shocked sense of denial (the first stage of grief): what could Mom be calling about at this hour, save for Dad’s passing? But yet, how could it be that he’s passed, after making such improvement over the last two days?
The last call was just a moment ago; I figure I can return the call, even at this hour, with minimal consequences. I need to find out what was so urgent.
Ring. Ring. “Hello, son?”
It’s strained and muffled, as I’ve described before, but it’s unquestionably Dad. I won’t say it’s the last person I expected to hear – he and Mom share the same line on their cell phones, so by rights, any call to one of them could be picked up by the other, in ordinary circumstances. However, these are far from ordinary circumstances.
“Dad? Is that you?” Oh, good grief, what a stupid question to ask. Still, given the hour, and my still-groggy state, it’s to be understood. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, I just wanted to say that I missed you. It’s quiet here, and lonely.” Now, if I was wider awake, I would have been absolutely heartbroken to hear this. The thought of one’s imminent departure (even if it’s not all that imminent after all) might understandably cause one to want someone by their side at all times. But at such an hour, that’s a lot to ask, especially given our experience with visiting hours.
Then again, I might have just as easily been rather cross; you woke me up just because you were lonely, sir? At least I manage to stifle that second sentiment. One day, I may find myself waking someone with a similar such call, and I’ll deserve their anger at me in turn if that’s how I choose to react.
“I’m sure it is, sir; I promise, Daniel and I will be there in the morning – well, you know, the real morning.” Three o’clock is still considered ‘morning,’ but among our social circle, only Erin would consider it part of the day (and even then, only out of necessity, since it’s in the early part of her shift). “I’ll talk to you then.”
“Okay. I love you, son.”
“I love you, too, sir. Get some rest, and I’ll see you soon enough.”
I’m sure Dad doesn’t feel the sense of relief I do upon hanging up the phone. Not only am I able to go back to sleep, but I now have the assurance that the calls I had been getting were not bringing the news I feared.
It occurs to me that the room I’m in is every bit as lonely as his is; it’s certainly darker (since the light from the hospital floor might be leaking in, even if the door is shut, which it hasn’t been all the times I’ve been there) and quieter (for much the same reasons). Not to mention the fact that your half of the bed is empty still, just as it has been for nearly three years now.
But whereas I ‘know’ I’ll see the morning, it isn’t nearly as frightening as for someone whose next breath isn’t necessarily guaranteed. And yes, I realize that none of us has a guarantee on our next moment, but it’s not like we think all that hard on that fact. Most of the time, moment follows moment without a second thought; it’s enough that we practically consider ourselves immortal at a certain age, in fact. It takes something like this to bring that fragility, that mortality that we possess into stark relief, and I suspect that, despite not being afraid of death itself, it could terrify even someone like my dad. He wants someone to be there when he finally has to leave.
I don’t blame him. I know I would, and it depresses me to think that I probably won’t have that luxury.
Still, the fact that he’s able to call me seems a good sign (although it appears that he’s managed to lose track of time somehow); I’m going to take it on faith that he’ll be able to see his way to morning, when I can keep that promise I made to him in these wee hours. So keep an eye on us, honey, and wish us luck. We’re going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 
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