Saying Good-Bye
Daddy lived in a nursing home about two and a half hours from the large city where my older brother, my sister, and I live. Our younger brother, who lived with Daddy, served as his primary caregiver. We each took a weekend to sit with Daddy and give our brother a break.
Daddy’s emphysema made conversation difficult, so we shared quiet time watching Gunsmoke reruns on his small television. The plan worked well for years, until shortly after my October visit. My brother’s three children were involved in a fatal car accident. My brother and his wife were dealing with the loss of their three-year-old son and making daily visits to their other son, who remained in a coma. His daughter, who had two broken ankles, stayed with me when she was released from the hospital.
The family needed my help, but caring for my niece meant that I couldn’t make my trips to see Daddy or explain why I wasn’t coming. My brother wanted to tell Daddy in person, which made sense. Daddy doted on his newest grandson and hearing the news over the phone would be too hard. The only problem was that my brother wasn’t able to leave for a visit to the nursing home. I was worried because Daddy wouldn’t know why we weren’t going to see him.
My nephew came out of his coma and went home for Christmas Day. My niece also went home. After twelve long weeks, we made plans to tell Daddy about the accident. Unfortunately, we never had the chance. Our younger brother called in the wee hours of New Year’s Day to say that Daddy had passed away.
More grief was heaped upon still-fresh grief. Counseling helped, but I couldn’t get over the fact that I never had the chance to say good-bye to Daddy, or that he didn’t know why I hadn’t come to see him. I couldn’t shake the regret. It shadowed my thoughts like a dark, thunderous cloud.
After a couple of years, my husband decided that a trip to the local bluebonnet festival might help me shake the sadness. We hadn’t been to the festival since Daddy went into the nursing home. I knew the outing would only remind me of trips with Daddy. I didn’t want to go, but my husband wouldn’t take no for an answer.
When we arrived at the little town hosting the festival, the sun sparkled off the fields of bluebonnets. Colorful vendor booths lined the streets. People were laughing and smiling. The scene should’ve made me smile, but it didn’t.
As I headed toward the entrance, I heard someone call my name. I scanned the people walking nearby, but I didn’t see anyone I knew.
The voice called again, “Over here!”
That time I recognized Daddy’s voice. At first I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. When I looked up, there he was, sitting on a stump under a nearby oak tree not ten feet away. Bluebonnets circled around his feet. He looked so alive.
“The bluebonnets are beautiful this time of year,” Daddy said, and plucked one from the ground.
“They are.” I walked toward him slowly.
“You need to be smiling more,” he said.
Tears welled in my eyes, blurring his features. “I don’t feel much like smiling anymore. I miss you. I’m so sorry, Daddy. I never got to say good-bye.”
To this day, I don’t know if I spoke those words aloud or whether I just thought them, but Daddy’s warm eyes met mine.
“I know, sweetheart. You took care of your brother and held the family together. You quit worrying about it now and get on with living. This is our good-bye.”
Tears rushed from my eyes like a great waterfall and trailed down my cheeks. I reached for a tissue and when I looked up, Daddy was gone. This time peace, not sadness, filled me. I knew Daddy understood why I wasn’t able to see him.
“Good-bye,” I whispered.
Turning, I spotted my husband at the entrance. I waved, and then hurried to join him. My heart felt lighter. I even smiled.
“You okay?” My husband’s eyebrows lifted in obvious surprise at my sudden cheeriness.
“I’m fine. I’m finally fine. I just saw Daddy and told him good-bye.”
—J. H., Texas
