Today marks the 20th anniversary of the death of my father – the man I am frequently told I look like. A chip off the old block, as the saying goes. He and I were the same height and had the same shoe size. I turned prematurely gray as he did. I have his scrawny legs and flat feet, and I am developing his pot belly.

Daddy died on a Friday morning, five days after announcing to our family that he wanted to stop the kidney dialysis that had kept him alive for four years. 

Simply put, Daddy was tired.

He had finished his 30-year teaching career at the age of 52. A few years prior, he had begun having heart problems, and two years post-retirement, he suffered a major heart attack necessitating a quadruple bypass. This was followed by an infection that required the large incision running down his sternum to be reopened, irrigated, and treated over a number of weeks. As the antibiotics took effect, his partially opened chest, little by little, was laced back together until the incision was once more closed and healed.

Later that year, Daddy began having difficulty breathing and was airlifted to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with Adult Respiratory Syndrome. Near death, he was placed in the intensive care unit, where he remained for months, but by God’s grace, he ultimately pulled through.

Nearly ten years later, Daddy’s diabetic condition, which had been diagnosed in his late 30s, worsened. Insulin, neuropathy, and impaired eyesight followed. In 2002, his kidneys failed to the point of requiring dialysis. Impaired mobilty led to use of a cane and, ultimately, complete confinement to a wheelchair. 

By early 2006, he began experiencing complications of end stage renal disease. Next came calcified blood vessels, followed by open wounds, infected blisters, and dead skin tissue that led to debridements, a wound vacuum, and partial amputations. 

Most of his physicians agreed his life expectancy would not be long, and due to the extensive care he would require, his nephrologist recommended he be sent to a nursing home. But my precious mother was determined to take him home and do her best to care for him there, just as she had on prior occasions. And, indeed, she did it with excellence. In true, Proverbs 31 fashion, Daddy’s heart safely trusted in Mama, and she did him good all the days of his life.

By this time, Daddy’s heart bypass was more than a decade old and past the point of needing replacement. Doctors felt that the healing required by his lower extremities was placing undue stress on his upper body and recommended complete amputation of his feet and legs. Discouraged by this and his poor quality of life, including his inability to walk, his loss of appetite, and the pain he was experiencing, Daddy made his decision. 

He was really, really tired.

In light of all of his complications, his nephrologist did not expect him to live more than three to five days. Following Daddy’s announcement of his decision, he was alert for a couple of those days. Alert enough to talk about his final arrangements and to send me to the cemetery to choose his resting place. Less than a week later, the flowers in the photo accompanying this post would be laid atop his grave.

He slept most of Wednesday in the hospital bed that had been placed in my parents' den, but he rallied that evening. He slept all of Thursday, and when his breathing changed that night, Hospice was called in. The nurse predicted he would pass between 10 AM and 4 PM on Friday. Shortly before 8 AM, he opened his eyes and looked at my mother, his wife for nearly half a century. In a comforting tone, she told him he would be alright soon. After a few last breaths, he took his leave.

I was in my early 40s when Daddy died in his late 60s. I am now in my 60s, and there is something about being close to the age my father was when he passed that gives me sober and reflective pause. In my self-interested opinion, Daddy died way too soon, and I would have treasured more years with him. Still, I am thankful for the ones I had. I realize there are many people who have had less time with their fathers; some never even knew theirs. And so, I am blessed. Still, as with the passing of any loved one, it seems time is never enough. 

But for more than a decade, Daddy had a rough go of it, and he was was exhausted.

So, from that perspective, I was and continue to be glad for his deliverance from all his bodily ailments. And the Good Lord, in His immense wisdom and in keeping with His perfect will and timing, knows best, and I trust Him, even in the loss and the grief. 

Twenty years are gone, but not for one of those has my father been forgotten.

Rest, Daddy. 

Rest in peace.