A man at the ripe age of 76 with Parkinson’s disease was no stranger to hospital visits. This meant that when a group message was sent to the family that included the words dad and hospital, I worried a little less. It meant that my heart didn’t drop as it once did in past years because as much as he was sick, he bounced back. When you love someone fragile you teach yourself not to worry every time something goes wrong, whether it’s a coping mechanism or denial, it makes life a little easier. Unfortunately, this time was different, it felt different. This time there was fear in the voice that told me Dad isn’t doing well. When the words I would come home if I were you were spoken, my heart dropped then, and I was on the soonest flight home. 

I did not like being on the other side of a hospital visit. My job back home was at a hospital and while at first, I enjoyed not needing to clock in, I quickly realized I would much rather be getting paid to experience the hell that we came across during dads stay. There was no emotional barrier when you left, there was no ignoring what was going on in the hospital room while you were away, and there was no “clocking out”. My family and I essentially lived in the hospital the last month of Dad’s life. We all took turns being with him in that plain and stale hospital room making sure he was never alone. Staff did their best to show their support too, bringing by snacks, drinks, and kind words. 

Our goal was to make Dad as comfortable as possible knowing it was his end, but it was also for ourselves. We threw him a birthday party in the hospital under these less-than-ideal circumstances, as he turned 77 years old that February 4^th. Having a birthday party on your literal death bed is quite ironic, to say the least. It was just as sad as you would have expected. His eyes never opened, he had no interest in his favorite ice-cream, and he didn’t laugh like we hoped. From church friends to in-laws, his room was a revolving door of people who loved both him and his wife Nylah who passed years before saying their goodbyes. 

It was hard to hear other people’s goodbyes, especially when it was only the hum of air conditioning that followed behind their tearful words. One night, when it was only my aunt and I with Dad, his niece and her family came by for their own private visit. It was her husband’s goodbye that stuck with me the most. It was a powerful goodbye, one that was led by something stronger than just the strength of man. The power and strength that came from this goodbye was the kind a soldier carried within themselves. A goodbye between two soldiers is one of the most powerful and that’s exactly what this was. “Barney you are a soldier, stay strong.” There were plenty of words before and after that made tears fall silently as I tried to give them as much privacy as I could, not willing to leave. It rang true in my heart then, and it continued to do so following his death. Those words followed me, reminding me of who my dad was as I listened to the Honor Guard play their somber melody, and again when we buried him on the Joint Base Elmendorf- Richardson with Sargent Barney Jimenez pressed into the headstone.  

For three weeks a hospice nurse would come by every 48 hours or so. Each nurse had a similar statement when we asked how long, it was always followed with I’d be surprised if he doesn’t pass in the next 48 hours. Every day we thought it would his last, yet each day dragged on. We watched his chest rise and fall and counted the seconds in-between, anticipating his last breath. Deep down I was happy to see his chest rise, but it hurt knowing he was still trapped here. Everyone could feel that he was on the verge of this world and the next but still couldn’t quite understand it. Sometimes we felt he was gone, but his respirations continued. The transition from this life to the next was not so simple, so as much as I hoped for a peaceful passing for him, I wanted it for me too. 

There were only a few places I was able to take a mental break. The first was the 45 minutes before I slept. Although I would wake up frantically worried that I missed a dad’s passing away text the white noise I would fall asleep to would empty my mind. Something about a constant and simple noise allowed my thoughts to focus and soften. The shower was my other “mental aid station”, as the famous public figure and Navy Seal, David Goggins, would say. This time it was the water that provided a constant and simple beat, one my whole-body focus on. It also gave me the space to cry, and it gave me the space to sing. It sounds silly, but singing provided me with just as much emotional relief as bawling. 

Death was supposed to be simple; it was supposed to be quick. This is what I expected because that was how it was in the movies, how it was with my grandma, and even my great-grandma Betty. I would have never expected something so brutal and unfair as death be so painfully slow. The more I experience death, the more I realize you can never prepare for it. 

In the hospital room life was simple, death not so much. How can something so universal and obvious feel so foreign. How can something so in your face take so long to acknowledge. No one understood the process of death or expected how hard Dad’s body would fight, though for how stubborn he was, we shouldn’t have been surprised. I was grateful for the moments when he talked about mom and those who passed before him like they had just visited. I was grateful for the time I spent holding his hand and giving him as much comfort as he did for me when I was little. I was grateful to return the favor of singing to him when he was scared in the emergency room as he sung to me to fall asleep when I was young. I was grateful for the time I could watch him sleep, studying his face in hopes of always remembering, as I’m sure he did to me when I was a baby. As hard as it was to watch him slowly disconnect from his body, I wouldn’t change it for the world. 

I could wish for more time, to hear more stories and tell old jokes, but I don’t feel I need to. I’m at peace with the 22 years I had with him. Sometimes death is just the next step. That’s not to say the process is any easier, it just means that you can accept it and still be heartbroken.