In response to another thread about the growth of atheism entered by another poster on this board, I referenced the miracles surrounding my father's death. Two other board members asked me to elaborate.
The following is part of a speech I wrote for CHRP at my Catholic Church in Atlanta last year. It is fairly long but do to the skepticism that people typically have about things like this, I thought the background information was necessary. By the way, I was raised Protestant and my father was raised in the Jewish faith and I converted to Catholicism about 20 years ago. I did not attend BC but ultimately sent one of my son's there.
By the way, the below was also meant to be heard and not read. I have tried to eliminate all personal references except those regarding cities but this is in fact very personal. Despite that, I felt it was important that I share my dad's story because we all still need heroes.
"By all accounts, my dad was a fine man. That being said, he was no angel. He was the youngest boy and was used to getting his way. He was not a prayerful man or someone who would ask God for help. For whatever reason, he never took my brother and me to Temple. He only attended church on Christmas and Easter to appease my Mother. My father once said to me; “son, I envy you your faith”. At best he was an agnostic if not an atheist.
My parents were best friends. In actuality, they were more than that. Because my father could not hear, he was dependent on my mother to be his ears. As he got older and his hearing deteriorated, my mother’s need to interpret the world to my father increased. My mother’s patience with my father was nothing short of remarkable.
When my mom was in her late 70s and my dad was in his late 80s, she started exhibiting the initial symptoms of Alzheimer’s. While my dad tried to deny that my mother was sick, he was all too familiar with the disease’s symptoms. His mother had also had Alzheimer’s.
As my mom's symptom's worsened, their roles began to shift and my dad started to take over as my mom’s caregiver. Eventually, when the two Hurricanes hit their condominium in Vero Beach, Florida within a three week period in 2003, his mission in life at age 92 became restoring and re- commissioning their home for my mom before he died.
His devotion to her escalated and he would no longer leave her to go to lunch or even go grocery shopping. If he went, he insisted that she go as well.
In the first several months of 2005, my dad had a feeding tube attached because he was no longer able to swallow food or liquids on his own. Despite the feeding tube, he contracted pneumonia. This combined with his congestive heart failure meant that he was not going to recover.
With the doctors at the hospital recommending that he be put in Intensive Care, my father yanked out all the cords and tubes that were keeping him alive. Knowing that he needed next-of-kin to sign him out of the hospital and also being aware that I was driving to Vero Beach from Jacksonville that day, he wanted to make sure that his desire to die at home would be honored.
Arriving to find my father close to death, I signed all the necessary forms so that he could go home. Arriving at the condominium building via ambulance, we pushed him up to the unit. With all the life he had left upon passing through the front door, my dad yelled, “Betty Love, I’m Home”!
Waiting for someone to die is a peculiar thing and not always timely. With my brother arriving the next day, we got my dad’s affairs in order over the next couple of days. With dad temporarily rallying, I went back to Atlanta to be with my wife who had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.
After being home for a week and a half, I got the call from my brother, my only sibling, early on a Sunday morning to tell me that father was near death.
I was about to get off the phone when my brother stopped me to tell me something important. “ father awoke from two days of coma this morning at 1:30, he opened his eyes and looked out over the end of his bed and in the presence of the caregiver and me he said, “I can see a white light and my mother, she is with my relatives at the temple and she says it will be all right”.
I got on the first plane to Melbourne and was at my father’s bedside by 3:00 PM that day. Although he never opened his eyes, I was able to sit with my father, hold his hand and tell him stories about his and mother’s life. At times he would squeeze my hand to let me know that he could hear me. Even though he was dying, he had a peace about him that I had never felt before. Despite the rattle of death in his labored breathing, he appeared to have come to terms with death.
Evening came and the three caregivers, the hospice nurse, my brother and I agreed to stay through the night. Of course, night came and went. Despite my father’s calm, he was still stubborn and refused to die.
Morning came and my brother suggested we turn father’s bed so that he could see the sunrise. Opening the curtains, we looked out the sliding glass doors to the east and the Atlanta Ocean. As the sun rose, it created a white path along the water that looked like thousands of little white stars bouncing off the water’s surface. The caregivers, the hospice nurse, my brother and I were all looking on in amazement.
We were tired at that point and my brother and I left to take showers to help wake up. The hospice nurse left and a new one arrived. The new hospice nurse bathed my father. With the calming warm waters, my father passed with my brother and I gone from the room.
Following my father’s death, for the first time in eight years at my Rotary Club that next week, I was for some reason asked to give the Sunshine Talk when someone else cancelled, A tradition at Rotary where a Rotarian gives a talk about their career or something interesting from their life. I think everyone was a little surprised at the subject matter of my speech, witnessing my father’s death.
Before my father died, while it was undoubtedly not intentional, he had put in place a group of caregivers who happened to all be Catholic. After my father’s passing, the Alzheimer’s progressed and my mother’s caregivers moved her out into the main room of the two-bedroom condominium transforming the bedrooms into anti rooms.
Needing to watch my mother throughout the night, these woman, several of which being from Peru, would say the Rosary over my mother throughout the night. While neither of my parents ever expressed an interest in the Catholic faith, through my father’s unconditional love for my mother, he had put in place one of the strongest forces in Catholicism to watch over his wife after he died even though he had had no faith himself.
When I would visit my mother, it felt like I was entering a chapel or other holly place. I would feel at peace in my mother’s presence despite her illness. To this day, I remember entering my parent’s condominium and the sound of the Rosary in both Spanish and English being chanted by the caregivers."
The following is part of a speech I wrote for CHRP at my Catholic Church in Atlanta last year. It is fairly long but do to the skepticism that people typically have about things like this, I thought the background information was necessary. By the way, I was raised Protestant and my father was raised in the Jewish faith and I converted to Catholicism about 20 years ago. I did not attend BC but ultimately sent one of my son's there.
By the way, the below was also meant to be heard and not read. I have tried to eliminate all personal references except those regarding cities but this is in fact very personal. Despite that, I felt it was important that I share my dad's story because we all still need heroes.
"By all accounts, my dad was a fine man. That being said, he was no angel. He was the youngest boy and was used to getting his way. He was not a prayerful man or someone who would ask God for help. For whatever reason, he never took my brother and me to Temple. He only attended church on Christmas and Easter to appease my Mother. My father once said to me; “son, I envy you your faith”. At best he was an agnostic if not an atheist.
My parents were best friends. In actuality, they were more than that. Because my father could not hear, he was dependent on my mother to be his ears. As he got older and his hearing deteriorated, my mother’s need to interpret the world to my father increased. My mother’s patience with my father was nothing short of remarkable.
When my mom was in her late 70s and my dad was in his late 80s, she started exhibiting the initial symptoms of Alzheimer’s. While my dad tried to deny that my mother was sick, he was all too familiar with the disease’s symptoms. His mother had also had Alzheimer’s.
As my mom's symptom's worsened, their roles began to shift and my dad started to take over as my mom’s caregiver. Eventually, when the two Hurricanes hit their condominium in Vero Beach, Florida within a three week period in 2003, his mission in life at age 92 became restoring and re- commissioning their home for my mom before he died.
His devotion to her escalated and he would no longer leave her to go to lunch or even go grocery shopping. If he went, he insisted that she go as well.
In the first several months of 2005, my dad had a feeding tube attached because he was no longer able to swallow food or liquids on his own. Despite the feeding tube, he contracted pneumonia. This combined with his congestive heart failure meant that he was not going to recover.
With the doctors at the hospital recommending that he be put in Intensive Care, my father yanked out all the cords and tubes that were keeping him alive. Knowing that he needed next-of-kin to sign him out of the hospital and also being aware that I was driving to Vero Beach from Jacksonville that day, he wanted to make sure that his desire to die at home would be honored.
Arriving to find my father close to death, I signed all the necessary forms so that he could go home. Arriving at the condominium building via ambulance, we pushed him up to the unit. With all the life he had left upon passing through the front door, my dad yelled, “Betty Love, I’m Home”!
Waiting for someone to die is a peculiar thing and not always timely. With my brother arriving the next day, we got my dad’s affairs in order over the next couple of days. With dad temporarily rallying, I went back to Atlanta to be with my wife who had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.
After being home for a week and a half, I got the call from my brother, my only sibling, early on a Sunday morning to tell me that father was near death.
I was about to get off the phone when my brother stopped me to tell me something important. “ father awoke from two days of coma this morning at 1:30, he opened his eyes and looked out over the end of his bed and in the presence of the caregiver and me he said, “I can see a white light and my mother, she is with my relatives at the temple and she says it will be all right”.
I got on the first plane to Melbourne and was at my father’s bedside by 3:00 PM that day. Although he never opened his eyes, I was able to sit with my father, hold his hand and tell him stories about his and mother’s life. At times he would squeeze my hand to let me know that he could hear me. Even though he was dying, he had a peace about him that I had never felt before. Despite the rattle of death in his labored breathing, he appeared to have come to terms with death.
Evening came and the three caregivers, the hospice nurse, my brother and I agreed to stay through the night. Of course, night came and went. Despite my father’s calm, he was still stubborn and refused to die.
Morning came and my brother suggested we turn father’s bed so that he could see the sunrise. Opening the curtains, we looked out the sliding glass doors to the east and the Atlanta Ocean. As the sun rose, it created a white path along the water that looked like thousands of little white stars bouncing off the water’s surface. The caregivers, the hospice nurse, my brother and I were all looking on in amazement.
We were tired at that point and my brother and I left to take showers to help wake up. The hospice nurse left and a new one arrived. The new hospice nurse bathed my father. With the calming warm waters, my father passed with my brother and I gone from the room.
Following my father’s death, for the first time in eight years at my Rotary Club that next week, I was for some reason asked to give the Sunshine Talk when someone else cancelled, A tradition at Rotary where a Rotarian gives a talk about their career or something interesting from their life. I think everyone was a little surprised at the subject matter of my speech, witnessing my father’s death.
Before my father died, while it was undoubtedly not intentional, he had put in place a group of caregivers who happened to all be Catholic. After my father’s passing, the Alzheimer’s progressed and my mother’s caregivers moved her out into the main room of the two-bedroom condominium transforming the bedrooms into anti rooms.
Needing to watch my mother throughout the night, these woman, several of which being from Peru, would say the Rosary over my mother throughout the night. While neither of my parents ever expressed an interest in the Catholic faith, through my father’s unconditional love for my mother, he had put in place one of the strongest forces in Catholicism to watch over his wife after he died even though he had had no faith himself.
When I would visit my mother, it felt like I was entering a chapel or other holly place. I would feel at peace in my mother’s presence despite her illness. To this day, I remember entering my parent’s condominium and the sound of the Rosary in both Spanish and English being chanted by the caregivers."
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