By Lynda Sentz
Buffalo, NY – The last time I spoke to my father, he didn't seem to be listening. I didn't think he could hear anything I was saying to him. I knew I didn't have much time, so I told him the really big stuff that I thought he should know. Dad had been sick for quite some time. When the call came telling me time was short, I hurried to be with him. Our family sat together for hours and hours, talking, laughing, thinking, and praying.
When night came, we took turns sitting with Dad. When my turn came, it was quiet, so quiet, sitting in his room. I could hear him breathing, even, strong, just like always. It seemed so strange, that we probably wouldn't have another night together, another chance to talk. We needed to have one last chat.
"You were the best dad anyone could ever have had," I told him. I was thinking about the times he had carried me when I was little and the times he had hugged me when I cried, upset over some silly thing that had happened. I was thinking about my birthday when I was about three and how he carried me to the sink, stood me on the kitchen counter and brushed the crumbs off my party dress.
I thought about the time I played with my yo yo in the living room. He had told me never to play with it in the house -- something would break. I was supposed to play with it in the basement. This one day, however, I was in the living room and just absent-mindedly played with it. Crack. The yo yo came down on the glass of the coffee table, shattering it. At that very moment, I thought about running away and never coming back.
When Dad came home, I met him at the door and told him the whole truth. He wasn't pleased, but he wasn't as mad as I thought he'd be. I don't even remember getting punished. I just remember wishing I hadn't disappointed him.
When we had our last "conversation," I thought it was really important for him to know that he had never disappointed me. So I told him just that. "You were the best dad anyone could have had. You taught us all that we needed to be grownups. Everything we are is because of the good dad that you were." Then it happened. Wink! My dad winked.
He was listening! You see, a wink had always been our signal. Sometimes it meant, "You're doing great!" Other times it meant, "I love you very much." Sometimes it just meant that we were connected. If I was on stage in the school play, Dad would catch my gaze and wink. If I was behaving well at church, he might look my way and wink. Before we walked down the aisle at my wedding, he winked at me. A small, small thing, maybe, but a wink from my dad meant everything to me. That last evening, some would say he couldn't have heard me, couldn't have winked. He was too sick, not able to comprehend. I know Dad heard me and signaled me. Wink.
One small, small moment, but I can live in it and remember the connection we shared forever. Though I'll never know exactly what message he was sending that night - love, understanding, acceptance - but I do know my dad heard me the last time I spoke to him.
Listener-Commentator Lynda Sentz is a writer from Hamburg.