The lessons my father taught me on his deathbed

The Christmas Eve that was the beginning of the end of my father’s life began with our family’s typical organized chaos of the holidays. My parents were getting ready to drop off some cards to their friends. I was about to leave their house with my then 3-year-old son, Alexander, to head to the grocery store to buy a few more ingredients for dinner. It was the first Christmas my son understood the holiday. For weeks, like many children, he prepared for Santa Claus to visit. We wrote his letter to the North Pole, prepared his Christmas list and organized a tray of cookies for Saint Nick, and carrots for the reindeer. My son was particularly concerned that Rudolph would be hungry. Alexander watched cartoons while I got ready. Suddenly, there was a loud crash. It sounded as though a car went through the front door of my parents’ countryside New Jersey home.

“Papa!” my toddler screamed. My mother almost simultaneously cried out, “Bob, Bob, oh my God!”

I turned down the hallway to see my father lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs.  His neck was twisted. Blood was rushing from his face. Shaking, I grabbed my phone, barely able to dial 911.

I spoke to the dispatcher while my mom cradled my father on the foyer floor, asking him to stay with us. His blood soaking her sweater. My son hid in the pantry closet. My dad regained consciousness briefly and said, “I’m fine. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

This was typical of my dad. Stoic and stubborn. He was the son of a Ukrainian immigrant mother and an Italian-American father. He grew up in a tenement apartment in New York City. My dad liked to tell me how they ate mustard sandwiches when money was tight. He epitomized the American dream to me, successfully working his way up the corporate ladder with his natural business savvy and charismatic personality.

One afternoon when I was in high school, my dad was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table with his glasses slightly pulled down on the bridge of his nose. I pulled up a chair across from him. He asked me, “Do you know the difference between you and your brother?” I shrugged. My dad said, “The difference is you will have to work triply as hard to achieve the same or less as him. That’s why it’s imperative you focus on your goals. Pretty is a dime a dozen. You’re not a princess. Hard work, preparedness and morals matter. You need to be able to provide for yourself and not depend on anyone else.”

After what felt like both a flash and an eternity, the police and EMTs arrived, along with my parents’ neighbor, a firefighter. My dad dozed in and out of a waking state, continuing to mumble the fuss was “unnecessary.” They put my father’s neck in a brace and placed him onto a stretcher. I followed the EMTs as they wheeled my father out of my childhood home, the home my father loved, the home my father raised me in. I kept telling him, “I’m here with you, Dad. I’m here. It will be OK.”

There was a chill in the air. The sun had set. The winter sky was starless and black; only the lights of the ambulance lit the driveway as it began to rain. I worried my father would be cold. I went back inside to get his coat. I asked the police officer to wrap it around him. The ambulance drove off. My mom’s friends took her to the hospital. I stayed with my son.

My boy, who only moments ago was overjoyed for Santa and Christmas, looked shell-shocked. My heart felt smashed. As a parent, I want to protect my child from pain, and my son adores his grandfather, his “Papa.” I asked Alexander if he was scared. He replied, “Mommy, I hid in the closet. I wasn’t scared. Grandpa George was with me.” Perplexed, I said, “Grandpa George was with you?” Alexander said, “He told me not to be scared.” Grandpa George was my maternal grandfather. He died when I was 9 years old. To this day, I still cannot make logical sense of that moment. Logic aside, I am grateful that my child was brought comfort during a harrowing time.

The house was empty. The warmth of the holiday seemed to drain from its ivory-painted walls even though the Christmas tree lights glistened. It felt bleak. Dismal. Lonely. My childhood house was a home because of the love my parents’ infused into it. Now, at this moment, it was just Alexander and me. I placed the tray for Santa on the seating area in front of the fireplace in hopes of salvaging some Christmas spirit for the sake of my son.

My phone rang. “Dad broke his neck,” my mom said. “It’s bad. They’re going to do surgery.”

On Christmas Eve 2021, my beloved father became a quadriplegic. He broke his C3-C5 (cervical vertebrae) in his neck, which left him 99.9% dependent. He could speak; however, he had no movement from the neck down. This was a crushing prognosis, especially for a man who used a handheld mower to mow his three-acre lawn, and washed his cars — and mine — by hand. When I would visit, he would take one look at my car, and before I could utter a word, he would be filling up a bucket of soap. He took great pride in doing things for himself, and more importantly, for his family. He took care of us.

When I was 33, I was given the dual diagnosis of endometriosis and infertility.  My doctor told me the likelihood of having children was not in my favor and short of impossible without medical assistance like in vitro fertilization (IVF). I underwent surgery for my endometriosis and recovered at my parents’ home. One night in particular the sadness washed over me like a tidal wave. I lay in bed propped up with pillows, crying alone. Each time I inhaled, jabs of pain radiated from where my incisions were. My dad heard me, and came into the room. He sat at the edge of my bed.

“Diana, I know this is hard,” he said. “We have been through hard things before. Being a mother does not define you. You define you. If you want to try to become a mom, you have my support. You go after it with all of your might. If it works, then it was meant to be. If it doesn’t, then you know you did everything in your power to try.”

As I wiped my tears, my father gently hugged me, mindful of my post-surgical wounds.  My dad had a way of making me feel like everything would be all right.

His words gave me solace and empowered me to pursue my journey to become a mother. Two years later, I welcomed my son.

After my father’s accident, he endured weeks of painful physical rehabilitation therapies. On a frigid morning in late January, my mom and I entered his hospital room to find the most stunning, vibrant vase of pink, purple and red flowers with a card addressed to Lucia, my mom. My dad smiled. “They are for you,” he said, looking at my mom lovingly. My parents were married for nearly 51 years. Her birthday was a few days away. “I haven’t missed one birthday yet, and I’m not about to,” my dad told her. He had dictated the card to my brother, who wrote it for him.

My mom rushed to my father, embracing him as they cried together. It was beautiful to witness pure, unconditional love not only enduring, but strengthening through sickness and health.

When it became apparent that the rehabilitation and medical therapies were not working, we made the decision to bring my dad home. My mom and I prepared the house for his arrival. I bought one of his favorite ice creams, strawberry cheesecake, and a brand of red wine he liked. He always joked that wine was good for the blood.

Having him home was bittersweet. He had returned to us, although not in the way we ever imagined or hoped for. He was bedridden. He required assistance 24/7. Thankfully, we had an incredible hospice nurse to help us care for him.

My father was only home for about a week when he asked to speak with me alone at his bedside.

“Diana, I do not want to live like this. This is not living. I’m a mound of flesh. I’m dying,” he said.

“Are you afraid to die?” I asked.

“No. I have lived a full life. A life I am proud of. I worry about leaving you behind, Mom, Alexander, our family. I do not want to leave you — any of you. I know there is a better place, though. I’m sure of it.”

My father was not a religious man, per se. Nonetheless, he believed in God.

He told me he saw his deceased mom, father, brother and our family pets that had died years earlier. He told me that they were waiting for him. He spoke of a light. He was certain of an afterlife, and this gave him great peace. I, however, was not as confident of a life without my dad in it.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle raising Alexander without you. You have been his role model like you are mine,” I said, unsuccessfully attempting to hold back tears. He was so strong, and I wanted to pay him the same courtesy.

“You are your father’s daughter. I taught you, and you will continue to teach him. I’ll be with you.”

My father then gave me a list of instructions. He asked me to call the funeral parlor to prepare for him. He ordered the details of his death, down to the orange-and-pink paisley tie and navy blue suit he wanted to wear. Then he whispered, “Three days.”

“Three days? Three days what, Dad?”

He calmly and knowingly replied, “Three days.”

I followed his requests down to the letter.

The next day my dad faded into a coma. I sat by his side talking and singing to him. The hospice nurse informed me that people can hear even in a comatose state. My father had a gorgeous singing voice, like Mario Alonso meets Frank Sinatra. He was an operatic crooner. When I was a kid, we would go to an Italian restaurant that had a live band. Without fail, my dad would get up on the microphone and sing, to my utter embarrassment and secret adoration. I never told him, but I loved when he performed. He passed his passion of singing to me. We would sing together at local theater groups, and gather around our family piano especially during Christmas to sing carols. It was our thing.

Three days after he told me to contact the funeral parlor, my father passed away peacefully at home. I was there. My father, who helped bring me into this world, gave me the great honor of helping him leave it.

I’m grateful for the lessons he taught me while he lived. I’m forever transformed by the lessons he taught me through his dying — that life is finite. We are here to learn and evolve through our experiences on this Earth, and each day is precious but not promised. Ultimately, life is about the people whose lives you touch, and the people who touch yours. My dad’s DNA runs through my veins, his wise words etched into my heart and the blueprint of his spirit in my soul. I am my father’s daughter.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com