It was chilly in our family room that day. That explains the blanket. The hat and scarf, though, were newly opened Christmas presents, and he agreed to put them on for a picture. I didn't know then, we never do, that this would be the last picture of Dad and I together.
I might have asked to take off the blanket had I known. Or maybe it's fine that I didn't. He looks comfy. And smiling.
I don't have pictures of his 83rd birthday less than six weeks later. Not sure why. Sometimes in those later years, little gatherings could be very short and sweet, and also awkward for all the reasons life in a wheelchair when you're 83 is awkward, so maybe we didn't get a chance. And at my ordination a few weeks after that we weren't really doing any specific photos that day. And I remember we had to get them back to their rooms at Westmount pretty much right after the service. So no pictures there. I would have liked that I think.
But overall, this last one is lovely.
Today is his birthday, so I woke up remembering these things.
And in remembering my Dad I think the best thing is how it was pretty amazing in the end. How a very complicated relationship ended up being so redemptive, somehow in the midst of the chaos of those last 11 years of care after the stroke. How we got to say so many good and healing things to each other as we moved through the initial event, then all the therapies and transitions and decisions and such. So many good conversations later, as things settled into a new normal and I did his nails and cut his hair and sang him songs when he asked me to. So many important moments in those long and frequent waits in ER that always turned into a hospital stay.
And such a holy thing, really, in those very last hours, to have him take his last breath with my hand on his chest.
Not every daughter gets this. I am grateful with not enough words to say it all.
Perhaps we shall have cake today. Dad did love cake.
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