Just before the 2020 Christmas season, I remember being excited about the upcoming year. So many of us were looking forward to New Year's day. Our eagerness lay more in seeing the previous year end than in witnessing the start of the new one.
2021 started out like most new years, with a celebration to commemorate the passing of time, albeit virtually for most of us. This was followed by work/school and a mutinous riot in the country's capitol. I, like so many others, watched in awe as hundreds of mostly non-brown citizens stormed the nation's capitol provoking fear and causing harm. We, the brown citizens of the US, stood transfixed before our screens witnessing both the audacity of the rioters and the restraint of the police force. That such a large crowd of people made it all the way to the building without encountering human barricades in full riot gear, canine units, water hoses, batons, tasers and fully loaded clips unloaded in fear into the chests of the not-so-peaceful protestors was utterly amazing to see. While this event was upsetting, it was little more than an inconvenient detour as my husband and I traversed I-95 in our SUV through Virginia.
They say that death occurs in threes. So, you can imagine that when a friend and colleague died in the first week of December 2020, I was a bit trepidatious. When my stepmom's sister passed suddenly, two days before the new year, I began to prepare for the worst. In spite of the doctors' best efforts and countless prayers submitted by dozens of friends and family members, dad was declining. After having heard the rumors about the odds of diabetics with COVID surviving intubation, dad decided to sign a DNR. He told me his truth in a very matter-of-fact tone while he still had command of his lungs. Unless God saw fit to heal him, his time was coming to an end.
A few days before, my dad said that with so many people praying for his recovery he couldn't see how it could result in anything else. Can you imagine how it feels to believe in the power of prayer and realize that you might still die anyway? Can you imagine the faith it requires to come to terms with that?
Right on time and according to schedule, the new year was ushered in at midnight. I had tried to video call my father earlier that evening before leaving work. He answered the phone, put one finger in the air to signify the 'one moment' gesture and the phone disconnected. He didn't call me back. I called again before midnight but couldn't get through. Around two in the morning, I received the phone call from my stepmom. At midnight on New Year's Day, my father drew his last breath.
As her words penetrated my sleepy sluggish mind, I curled into a fetal position. Voice thick with the tears coursing down my cheeks, I barely recall trying to make it through her speech without falling apart. I hope that I responded appropriately. I remember being relieved when she stopped, mumbling my love and dropping the phone before succumbing to the grief that expelled itself through shaking and sobs when silent cries no longer sufficed. Supported in my husbands arms, I purged everything that wanted out, swallowed the rest and got ready to face a new year and a world without my father.
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