There is Life After Death

This I Believe: Essay



Experiencing the death of a loved one has the

power to throw us into the dark abyss of the unknown. There

is nothing more powerful at testing our faith then loss. Questions

about God, the soul and an afterlife begin to arise as our minds

attempt to make sense of what was and what is. I believe there is

an afterlife. I believe that if we pay attention, our loved one's let us

know they are okay.

I began my own personal journey of loss with the death of

my father. He was 55 years old when I was born and it did not take

me long to realize my time with him might be limited. As a thoughtless

and innocent child I remember asking him questions like "Why did you

wait so long to have me?" and "What if you die soon because you are so

old?" He would answer me with "Daddy's live forever." I knew better of

course, but like many of the tall tales he told, there where layers of truth

in his reassuring statement. I believe our impact on this world is

everlasting.

My dad got sick right after my youngest son was born. We lived

next door to him. My mother lived three blocks away. They were just like

an old married couple, only in separate houses. "Happily divorced" my

mom would say. They took each other to doctors appointments and he

would give her chocolate on her birthday or Valentines day. It was fitting

that she would be there till the end.

My mom and I had been at the hospital for two straight days. We

had been told my dad didn't have long. She encouraged me to go home

to my kids and I told her to go home and rest. She was looking ill. We

argued about leaving. She convinced me to go home, shower and feed

my baby. When I got back my sister met me in he lobby and told me my

mom had a heart attack. My dad's response was, "Awe hell Margaret!"



His heart doctor took me into a little private room and told me he couldn't

help my dad, but he thought he could save my mom. The day after

Thanksgiving she had a double bypass. By this time my dad was

comatose and on comfort measures.

After my mom's surgery, I went upstairs to tell him it was okay.

I sat in the cold quite room, hot cup of coffee in hand. My face was

  tear stainedand I was completely exhausted. I whispered that my sister

and I would take care of each other. I told him his mother was waiting for

him and it was okay to go. I would be alright. I didn't think he would

listen, but he looked scared and in pain. Sure enough, the nurse called

me at 12:01 am that night/morning to tell me he was gone. I waited a full

day tell my mom. She was out of it the day before, so I didn't really have

a choice. I said "Daddy's gone," and she told me she knew. My mom

said he had visited her in his favorite blue shirt. He was smiling. I
 
believe he did visit her.

Almost three years later her health had only gotten worse. She

was in the hospital off and on for about a year and the doctors could not

figure out what was wrong with her. Eventually they settled on

encephalopathy, a fancy way of saying her brain was shutting down.

I took my youngest son to the hospital with me. He had just

turned 3. Although my mom was not herself, being near the grand kids

seemed to make her better. He sat on the bed with her and said while

pointing to the empty bed next to her, "that's grandpa's bed." I laughed

out. He had never really been around any grandpa's and I had never heard 

say that word.