An Hour Or So Before
by Rachael Dolan
You’d think the call from the hospital would have made me rush.
Instead, as though time was on my side, I decided to take a shower; like a chump.
I didn’t alert my brother, who was outside making his hands busy, as he did when life’s inevitabilities felt too immense. Suddenly, covered in bubbles, I am hit over the head with the truth.
“What the hell am I doing?” I remember exclaiming aloud.
Dad is dying, the voice inside my head replied. He’s on his way out, ready to vamoos, about to bite the big one, preparing to cross the rainbow bridge to the land of TirNaNog; you need to go to him. My inner voice is a cheeky bastard, always has been.
Cut to: my brother and his girlfriend and I driving his flashy truck with extremely ridiculously sized tires, down the country highway at breakneck speed. We siblings are unconcerned. If his girlfriend is, she hasn’t said so. Each kilometer brings us closer to the inevitable; saying goodbye to our hero.
To my brother, he is not merely a Father; he is a best friend and mentor. To myself, he is the first man I’ve ever loved, who’s loved me back just as much, probably more. We randomly pass my best friend, who considers my Dad to be like a second Father to herself. She is on a walk with her partner and their one month old.
We squeal to a stop. I shout from the window that Dad is on his way out; like I’m alerting her that her shoe is untied. I swear, the reactions one has to life changing events! Of course she can’t come, her wee one needs her. The wee one that only weeks before, my Father and I visited for what would be their only meeting. Dad wouldn’t hold him, joking that he was radioactive due to the chemo and radiation.
Upon arrival, a sign informs us that the parking lot is full. Paying no mind, my brother makes good use of the tires and horsepower, and parks on the lawn. My practical mind considers covering his license plate, but the rest of me, as well as my brother, says “fuck it.”
We are told, by the healer and family friend who is helping my Dad make the transition, he is waiting for us. My Mother sits holding his hand, he appears asleep. My oldest brother, who’d called me an hour or so before, sits nearby, pale as a ghost. Each of us extends our I love you’s, and I take Dad’s other hand and whisper “It’s okay, you can go now.” He goes, rather memorably.
It is a difficult thing to explain, the loss of a truly loved one. Only those who have gone through it know. I imagine perhaps, it could be like having a limb amputated; you forget regularly, and when you go to use the limb it isn’t there. And you mourn the loss all over again.