Why I'm able to stay calm as I watch my father dying.

He had spent the last few days in bed. I had just helped him up with both arms so that he could sit at the edge of bed. Now I was sitting on his chair, sideways at his desk. The grey light shone through and fell onto his face. He had lost so much weight, the bones of his face was showing under his jaundiced skin. Yesterday, I had trimmed his hair right up to his skin. If not for his eyes, I might not had recognised him.

“Do you want me to bring something of yours back to Vietnam, dad?”, I asked.
“Nothing… except maybe place my photo on our family alter. Next to your grandfather,” he replied.

It was a simple, straightforward question, and he gave a clear, concise answer. Maybe his voice cracked a little when he mentioned his childhood home, but he retained his military poise as he always had.

We had been talking like this for some twenty minutes, me asking him questions on how to handle his affairs, him responding calmly, with feeling but little passion. It was as if we were listing things to pick up at the hardware store. I got the impression that he valued the peace.

Outside, I heard my mother and my sister’s muffled voices from the kitchen. My mother had been frantic that morning; she was having trouble sleeping and had left the stove on. My sister was feeling anxious and talking quickly. She mentioned that my brother was feeling stressed and acting ‘a little crazy’.

I felt calm. Surprisingly calm.

“Do you remember when you were still in school?”, he asked, “I told you when I got older, I would like to live no more than 75.”
The memory felt vague to me. “A little. I was around 17.”
“Do you remember why? Old age brings too many ailments. I’ve been given 4 bonus years.
“I grew up in poverty. We didn’t have enough money for kerosene lamps. Now I die in my own home surrounded by family and prayer. It is enough.”

I suspect that my father has been contemplating death for many years. That’s the reality for a veteran. He had seen death, saved friends from death, and had some near-death experiences himself.

When I was 4, that was when his liver disease first began. Statistically, he should have not survived. He had readied himself to die. He’s since left as though. Looking at it today, I’ve realised that this rubbed off on me.

So it’s been that I’m destined to stay up alone in the darkness. I’ve always been at peace during the night. Without light or sound, nothing to keep away encroaching thoughts.

When I was a boy, I would have recurring dreams that my father had just died. It upset me at first; by the time I had turned 8, I had gotten used to it. My father would always speak to me before dying.

Writing this now, I’ve just realised why our conversation was so peaceful. It was like an old dream. All because death had touched his life so vividly, and it had washed over me since I was a child.

These past few weeks, I’ve been searching for my why, why I am so drawn to this work.

It had always been about peace.
Peace to sit present with another.
Peace to speak to one another with heavy hearts.
Peace that could be owned, and given, and shared.

All because my father’s spirit had already touched death.

He had made peace with it, found peace with it, lived peacefully with it.

It was, and will be, his first and last gift to me.