I walked into the hospice room. Dad was lying in bed—his eyes half-closed, his breathing barely audible. I’d rushed to Cleveland to be by his side. I’d been home in Alexandria, chopping vegetables for Thanks giving dinner, when my sister, Nan, called.
“I got a call from the hospice,” she said. “Dad doesn’t have much longer.”
Oh, no! Not on Thanksgiving Eve, I thought.
Dad had Alzheimer’s. He’d been relatively stable until a series of infections prompted moves from assisted living to hospitals, rehab facilities, nursing homes and finally hospice in early September. It was agonizing to make the decision to separate him from our mom, who remained in assisted living.
I knew Dad’s life was coming to an end. But did it have to happen so close to Thanksgiving? It seemed tragic to lose a loved one on a holiday, our future celebrations tainted by grief. God’s timing is perfect, I tried to tell myself.
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