by Sandra Seigle

Created on: January 02, 2009

There is never an easy time for losing a parent; whether you're 5 or 50 years old, when a parent dies, innocence dies with them.

My father had been sick for many years, but was too stubborn to give in fully to the pain that was wracking his body. He refused to be tended to, saying that he didn't want to "burden" his family. He had also tired of the experimental drugs his doctors kept trying to force on him that never worked as intended and always threw him to one extreme or the other. He was diabetic, allergic to insulin, with several heart and other physical maladies that doctors could neither diagnose nor treat.

So, he fought 15-plus years for his health, his independence, and his pride, self medicating where he could, and simply "dealing with" the rest.

He suffered a heart attack the day before Thanksgiving in 2003, staying conscious barely long enough to place an emergency phone call to the police. An ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital, where he recovered well enough to be sent home after about a week. He told me then that he was dying - he knew it and wasn't scared, so I shouldn't be either. Our family gathered at that time, to check up, to tell him he was loved, and to say goodbye. He wasn't gone from us yet - that was our miracle.

The weeks passed and his health improved, and we all started to speculate - he'd pulled through some crazy things before, maybe he'd pull through this, too.

He was with us about a month before his health started to decline again, this time drastically. He was bed-bound, unable to walk, unable to eat, barely able to hold a coherent conversation most times. I remember trying to talk to him and being very angry - not at him, or God, or my mother, or really anyone in particular - just angry. Where was the man who used to chase me around the yard, scoop me up, and shower kisses on my forehead? Where was the man who always knew the answers and had a witty comeback to every smart-alecked dig? He was supposed to be strong and infallible; at least, stronger than me. He was my father, and that made him invincible - didn't it?

February 17, 2004, my mother told me he was exactly the way he'd always been. She'd gotten up, started getting dressed for work, and he had called her back to bed. He told her he just wanted to lay and hold her for a while. They laid there for quite a while, silent, together. He died with her in his arms.

It's been almost five years since we lost him, and it isn't much easier now than it was then. Life goes on, but there's always an empty place, a sorrow even on the happiest occasions, that he isn't here to share it with us. I miss him every day, but I am thankful that there is no more pain for him, and I cherish the good memories we made while he was here. Above all else, I thank God for granting us the time to say goodbye, and for giving my mother and father those last moments together.

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