Fifteen Minutes

By the time we arrived in Plymouth, it was well after sunset and the cold of the Fall Wisconsin evening had set in. Having just traveled from Phoenix, the temperature felt even colder.

My brother Greg, sister Barbara, and I were the last of the family members to arrive. The rest of my brothers and sisters were already there and greeted us as we drove into the parking lot. My brother Bob opened the door of the car, leaned in and gave me a tight hug. Holding back his emotions he softly said, "You missed him by just a little over 15 minutes."

The day before, Barbara and I were together at my home visiting when the phone rang. She answered it. The conversation I overheard was serious and I could tell she was speaking with someone in the family.

Our Dad had been battling cancer for some time and he was progressively getting worse. He had moved into an assisted-living center that was connected to the hospital in Plymouth, where he lived. There he could live within the privacy of his own little apartment, while still being connected to those who would provide him help if he was in need. It was a convenient and safe arrangement for him.

Barbara's conversation went on for quite some time. I could tell by the look on her face that she was very worried about what she hearing. When she was finished talking and hung up the phone, she told me the news. Dad’s condition had taken a considerable turn for the worse and we should seriously consider going home.

Being a nurse, Barbara understood our Dad's recent change in condition was life threatening and insisted we call the airline to reserve tickets for a flight home as soon as possible.

We telephoned Greg informing him of these most recent developments. Fortunately the three of us were able to reserve seats on a flight from Phoenix to Chicago leaving the next day. As much as I dreaded going home, this time my heart told me that I didn't have much choice. Our flight was scheduled to depart mid-afternoon.

When we arrived at O'Hare field in Chicago, we were greeted by our nephew John. He drove us from the airport to Plymouth, Wisconsin. The drive would take approximately three-hours.

The ride to Plymouth seemed to take forever. As we drove, no one spoke. We were all preoccupied with trying to come to grips with the possibility that we were about to lose our father. Just north of Milwaukee my brother Greg broke the silence. All he said was, "Why do I suddenly have this sinking feeling in my stomach?" We were approximately 20 minutes from our destination.

After Greg spoke those words, I began experiencing a feeling I had only once before when our mother died. It was an aching that I cannot describe; a sense of loneliness. It was then I began to realize that the news awaiting us would not be good.

A father; a friend, was gone. Although he had his faults, as we all do, Dad was a mentor and a role model. He knew what it was like living with a severe disability. When I felt discouraged or defeated, I could confide in him knowing he'd have the words to make me feel better. His advice was always simple and straight to the point and often times proved to be profound and life changing.

Dad died on his 69th birthday. As I learned later, my brothers and sisters had gathered around his bedside in that last hour and sang songs they remember our parents teaching us when we were young. Dad took his last breath as they sang "Happy Birthday."

Knowing we were about to arrive, our brothers and sisters greeted us we drove up. My brother Bob was the first to the car. He opened my door and immediately gave me a tight hug. As we embraced he softly spoke into my ear saying "you missed him by 15 minutes."

After Bob's greeting in the parking lot, Barbara, Greg and I went directly to Dad's hospital room. Knowing that we would arrive soon, the staff had left him lying in his bed so we could say our goodbyes. His body had a yellowish hue from the illness but his face looked peaceful. As I left the room, the tears started streaming down my face. Never before had I felt so alone. I was now an orphan.