In December 1996, about a week before Christmas, an unexpected 2 a.m. phone call awaked me from a warm winter sleep, by a well-lighted Christmas tree. It was a doctor a good 900 miles south, in Florida. The male voice told me that my dad was in their hospital. I jumped to my feet and I said, “I’ll be right there!”
The man asked, “You’re in Ohio right?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I wouldn’t bother, if I was you. I’m sorry, but we don’t expect your father to make it thought the night.”
Of course, I was on the phone with the airport right away, looking for a flight from Columbus to Tampa. And within hours I was on my way to Florida.
When I arrived at the hospital, my dad was sedated, so he couldn’t speak, but he could hear me, and he squeezed my hand. My brother had flown down as well, and we were told by the doctors that dad’s lungs we’re full of blood. They weren’t sure as to why, but they suspected it possible that his blood thinkers were thinning his blood too much.
After a day or two, we all agreed that my dad was strong enough for exploratory surgery. The surgeons drained the blood from my father’s lungs, and within twelve hours, dad was up and talking as if nothing ever happened to him.
So on Christmas Eve I found myself flying home, back to Columbus to celebrate Christmas with my mom and sister; my brother wasn’t flying home until Christmas day. My dad was to stay in the hospital for a few more days, before they would release him.
The plane ride home was full of strangers with Christmas stories of their own. They all began with, “You are so lucky your dad is ok. My loved one (dad, mom, etc) was not so lucky, and Christmas has never been the same since. Then their eyes would fall to the floor, leaving me with a sinking feeling that my dad was living on borrowed time.
He died two days later, on December 27th, 1996, at 52 years of age. I can tell you exactly where I was when he died, because I felt him pass through me.
The thing that bothered me the most about his death was that he was basically there in the hospital alone. No family to hold his hand, or to be present at the time of his passing. I use to think that was an awful way to go – alone, by yourself.
But in 2014, about a week before Christmas, I found myself in the hospital fighting for my life. I spent Christmas in an I.C. U. unit. Another month or so, it would be my 52nd birthday. I couldn’t help but think of my father on that Christmas Eve as I lay alone in the cold dark, with the sound of the beep, beeps that told me my heart was still pumping. I was in Florida, and my family was in Ohio.
If I would have died that night, I can honestly say, it was a good night to die. I was not alone. Not for a minute. I was surrounded by love. The room might have been cold and dark, but I wasn’t. There was a light that shone on me, and I was warm and at peace. Crazy maybe, but I felt like the baby Jesus lying in a manger.
And that is not the first brush with death I have ever had. When I was about 12 or 13 years old, I damn near drowned. The third time when I went under, calm, came over me; I wasn’t scared or panicking anymore. I saw Jesus stand before me, with an angel kneeling at each side of Him. But then someone grabbed my arm and pulled me ashore.
If I have learned anything from this life, it’s that we are not alone, and death is nothing to fear. Life after death is like the dragonfly born from water to air.
So do not feel guilty for holding gratitude and love, which accompanies the season, close to heart. Honor those loved ones who are unable to be with you this Christmas, with a smile and laughter. Christmas is a magical time of the year, because we celebrate love. It is love that connects us all – living and dead. Love is the one constant between the two worlds. I guess that’s why they call it, “Christ Mass.”
“Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays!”
