Yesterday I went over to my parent’s house to talk to my Dad. He’d gotten some bad test results. He’s not well. He’d called my sister, crying. This would be only the second time I’d ever seen him cry. He may have been sensing the tunnel at the end of the light. I know I am. Sister texts me, I fall apart, call Dad, leave work, head over there.
I’ve mentioned that there were some really hard and sad things that happened with my Dad during my childhood. I have a good relationship with him now and have mostly made my peace with the past. My Dad is who he is. He has his own undiagnosed and untreated mood disorder. He raised six kids and saw us all through college. He loves us fiercely and without conditions. He is a force to be reckoned with, even at almost eighty years of age.
So, I went to talk to Dad. Countless years of therapy, prayer, meditation and every other kind of effort at knowing myself went into the effort at that moment to be present for my Dad and to talk about his eventual passing from Planet Earth. I told him how I didn’t want him to worry about us, that we would be ok. That right now it’s his time. And that when it’s time to go, he should embrace the journey and look for his loved ones on the other side. Oh and finally, thanks to the Long Island Medium, I asked him, when he crosses over, to try to keep in touch if at all possible.
We both cried our eyes out. We said a lot that needed to be said. Dad isn’t dying tomorrow, or next week. At least I don’t think so. But we both crossed some kind of bridge yesterday. I don’t know what it was; I only know that I am strangely grateful to have gone there.