My father died in 2008 at the age of 90. At the end his body was failing him but his mind was still sharp, but he was starting to fade in and out. About 2 weeks before he died I came to visit. I stayed for 5 days. My dad was bed-ridden. There was a hospital bed set up in our living room where my dad stayed. He had a caregiver who bathed and fed him, and I pulled up a comfortable chair next to him and together we went through dozens of old scrap books and photo albums. My dad would spend sometimes almost a half hour on each photo, telling me about the people in them, what they were doing, the memories they were making. I just listened and encouraged him to talk, and asked the occasional question but mainly just listened and kept him company. He told me repeatedly how happy he was to have me there.
When I had to return home (I lived in another state) he thanked me and asked when I would return for another visit. I knew my father was dying, that his time was short, and I smiled and said I wasn’t sure, it probably wouldn’t be too long, but until that happened, I’d see him in my dreams. Then I smiled and hugged and kissed my dad.
He died 10 days later. The hardest thing I did for my dad was smile and not let him see me cry when I left.
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