“I soon shall pass the veil of death, And in His arms I'll resign my breath; And then my happy soul shall tell My Jesus has done all things well.”
— from the hymn “O may I worthy prove to see...” , Lloyd hymnal.
Monday, August 7, 2023.
I remember. Some of it is ugly, heart wrenching and I want to forget.
Others are sweet, precious, and tender mercies I’ll always cherish and keep in my heart.
I had just left the school board meeting when my brother called to say Mama was taking Daddy to the hospital. I took off to Jesup.
I didn’t know it then, but I’ll always regret Mama was by herself when it happened. Daddy stopped talking to her on the way after having told her he was having trouble catching his breath. It had been building for a few weeks — pneumonia and fluid — a common complication of the multiple myeloma he has suffered with.
By the time I arrived at the emergency room at Wayne Memorial, the frantic, feverish work was taking place behind the closed doors of the crash unit. I wish I could remember the names of all those kind folks who went above and beyond to help my daddy. The emergency room doctor told us they were doing the best they could to try to get him stabilized for a helicopter flight to Savannah.
And, it came back to me. I knew deep down in my heart that what the doctor was saying would not happen.
I didn’t know what was coming, but Daddy had mentioned to me the night before: “I’m not going back to Savannah.”
We had been to Savannah the week before — in a major trauma center in the city. He was hooked up to IVs and monitors and deprived of the Braves, his phone and his underwear among other things. He wanted to get back home to what he knew and to the place and to the people he loved dearest and best. He was going home to go home.
A storm had just passed through on that Sunday night before.
He mentioned things to me that night before he died that were odd when he said them, but it all made sense now. He told me where things were and asked me to learn new things to help my Mama, brother and sister. He made me promise him the three of us would look after our Mama.
I should have known, but I didn’t. I asked him if he was going somewhere.
“Just promise me,” he said again.
I assured him we would. I told him I loved him. Smiling, he replied “I know it bud.”
I was re-assured by that. I and my brother had inherited the nickname “Bud”. My Granddaddy never called Daddy anything but “Bud.”
He continued to assure me all the while that everything was fine. “I’m fine.” “I don’t hurt anywhere.” “I am o.k.” “Everything is going to be alright.”
A few minutes after 8 p.m., the doctor entered the waiting room.
“We thought we had a rhythm, but we could not sustain it. I’m terribly sorry. We did all we could.”
I don’t know how to describe how I felt.
I know it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever known.
My faith told me to look up.
While Daddy’s passing was abrupt and sudden, he got his wish. He didn’t want to be bedridden and he didn’t want to be helpless. God granted those favors. He was on the tractor 14 days before he died. He attended a family gathering and church in the days before. He had a big buffet lunch a few hours before his summons came. He didn’t have to go back to Savannah. I’m thankful God granted him those favors.
It’s hard to believe I’ve not seen him in one whole year now. I’ve missed him terribly. There are days when I have just need to talk to him so bad. I still do.
Daddy was always a constant presence in my world. I was blessed to have a great Daddy.
I felt like I’ve left him behind and like a part of me is missing. It was that way at the emergency room in Jesup that sultry, stifling Monday night, at the funeral home that Wednesday night in Blackshear and at the cemetery back home in God’s country in Appling County that Thursday — but I know that’s not really true. All that was there was the earthly house he lived in. I am confident Daddy is in heaven with the Lord.
In the year since, I think about things he would say and things he would do. I think about him when I see a John Deere tractor, watch a Braves game and see the night light on out at the shop. He is on my mind when I hear an Alan Jackson song or enjoy a bowl of ice cream.
Daddy had said often after he was diagnosed that he had a great life and that myeloma would not change that.
I know that he had great faith and he lived it.
I know he is in the bright, eternal city, where the Lord is the light and where sorrow and sadness can never come. He picked a hymn for his homegoing service that says it perfectly: I have heard of a land On the faraway strand, ’Tis a beautiful home of the soul; Built by Jesus on high, There we never shall die, ’Tis a land where we never grow old.
Never grow old, Where we'll never grow old, In a land where we’ll never grow old...
His words come back to me and soothe my heartache.
Everything is going to be alright.
Still, Bud, I love and I miss you so very much.
