This year there are no Easter eggs on the lawn, no
baskets in front of the fireplace, no empty tomb rolls. There will be no
Patrick and Kaitlin gathering their money-filled eggs scattered around the
house. Instead, there are early morning hospital visits, Pam to visit her Mother
and me to serve Dad his breakfast.
It seems odd to think of the resurrection while I
watch my Father’s long goodbye. For him, there will be no miraculous recovery.
At 89 his condition will only get progressively worse. There exists no drug
that will make him 50 again.
Increasingly, our world looks at old people as
disposable. Once they become totally dependent on drugs and the medical system
for their survival, the clock begins to tick and the bureaucracy becomes
impatient. Someone else needs the bed. Send him to hospice, load him up with
morphine and in two weeks he’ll be gone, is the preferred if unspoken remedy.
But my faith informs me that all life is precious.
Christ died for all of us, especially the most vulnerable. Dad’s Doctor, a
Jewish man of prodigious gifts and a pure heart put it this way, “Even if he is
only awake and engaged with you for a few hours a day, how do you send a man
who is capable of laughter to hospice? He is still your Father; he knows you
and he can have a conversation and smile brightly.
His words to us after a long day contemplating Dad’s
care options restored our confidence in the justice of our decision. I will never
forget them or the great Doctor.
I said earlier that it seemed odd the juxtaposition
of Resurrection Sunday with Dad’s condition, but upon second thought, not so
much. Someday soon, Dad will breathe his last. My faith teaches me that in that
instant he will experience his own resurrection, no less miraculous than that
Easter morning 2000 years ago. He will be reunited with our Mother and all will
be right with the world. And we who remain will have no regrets.
Happy Easter, everyone.
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