Is it a Happy Father's Day?

What do you say to someone on Father's Day when

their father is dying in the hospital? or
they never knew their father?
they lost their father at a younger age than most of us? or
their father was far from the right kind of man? or...

It's easy to say Happy Father's Day to those who are clearly connected as father-child.

I just returned from the hospital. The neighbor's driveway had been predominantly empty this couple of weeks. We knew the husband was facing a serious illness. Mom had suggested last week that we might cruise by the hospital to see if perhaps that's where they were.

I went. As I followed the hallway directions to the room number I was given at the desk, the "message" of the particular room became increasingly clear as I followed the signs; first the department name, then the sign on the door itself. Critical care.

The door was closed. I figured it best to not join them, even though the nurse said, "Oh, just knock." I found a quiet waiting area and set my things down. Nearby was an unattended work counter. I figured I could find some writing material and pen there. I knocked over a brochure display while reaching over the counter for a pad of paper. Back at my quiet seat, I scribbled various thoughts of what I want to express to them in absentia; I'd leave a note for them, I figured.

A little while later, the wife walked by, on her way out. What do I say to someone who has just left a closed door room where it's been just family?

People have different approaches, some of them helpful, some quite hurtful (out of not knowing what else to say, even though their heart is right in wanting the best for the other).

In my better moments, what I "say" varies but it basically has the meaning "talk to me" or "tell me your story." And in my better moments, I clear the way for them to talk. I convey that I am indeed going to listen. I convey that their feelings of embarrassment or fear about talking are feelings are okay, that they'll soon be past those, that it's okay for them to be open. Sure, I talk, too. In my better moments, the talking I do is shaped to communicate understanding of what they're saying and to return to their story. I hope that this moment with my neighbor was one of those better moments.

My opening line: "Hi." and "I found you." That worked. She started opening up. She told me her husband didn't want visitors. I said I understood that (even though the nurse had said "just knock"). She was obviously heading out. As she talked, I told her I'd join her out to the parking lot. She set the pace. I knew she'd get deeper if given the ear, if given the time, if I "stayed out of the way" by sticking with her topics and conveying permission to talk about tougher stuff. I suspect that part of that "permission" was her knowing I'd lost my father. She and her husband had joined me in the street a few hours after Dad had passed way. They had acknowledged my loss and shown love in that simple gesture. (That's an important aspect isn't it: those of us who have the same kind of loss are most likely to have a kind of permission to enter into such conversation; the further we are from sharing such experience, the more likely we should keep our mouths shut and let others enter such conversation. With that said, a simple "hello" can be vastly superior to maintaining a distance from the person.)

We reached the parking lot and she stopped in the shade; I didn't want to delay her in her traveling to her home for the present task she'd already identified and hinted at continuing toward her car. But she lingered, and there was that subtle signal. Soon I was hearing her deeper story, initiating a sideways hug that tripped her into releasing a few pent-up tears, retreating again to listen to her details.

Oh how her daughters don't want to lose their father on this of all days. Understood.

I joined her to her car, parted.

I wandered back into the hospital; found a quiet place; scribbled a few thoughts of what I could express to the grieving family via note. After six pages of drafts of idea, I abandoned all of those. In the end, I wrote something about praying for them and their father, something about being glad to hear that they were all able to be together and talk, to be together to hear each other's thoughts in this dark moment. To be together. I folded the note, wrote their names on it, left it with the attending nurse.

What do you say to someone in their loss...

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Many hours later, after Mom and I had dinner out, I suggested we could swing by, see if we happened to cross paths with any of the family. We hung out in the empty waiting area. I read aloud some article from a magazine. One of the few footsteps we heard was one of the daughters arriving. Arriving? Ah, they'd decided to do "shifts".

I'm not the one needing comfort, but it brought me some, from the thought that the daughters would get their wish to not lose their Dad on Father's Day. I thanked God in my heart. Simple love given, connection made, we left.

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June 21: The neighbor's cars were in the driveway. Hm, yes. I hugged the wife; found out he'd slipped away at 4 am. I mentioned I'd prayed that God would "keep her husband" longer for the sake of her daughters. She said she had, too. I'm thankful for that little light in the darkness.

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Part of my brother's tribute to my father: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyWpwn1QC-A

You can find the other five parts on youtube; search for "A Tribute to my Father, Robert Darrow".