By necessity, while recuperating from extensive knee surgery for eight weeks in 2018, I had to become more and more dependent on my wife, Luann, to do things for me. Not being able to easily move around will do that to you. Whether it involved getting me a bottle of water, going up and down the stairs every time I had a meal, putting on my socks or catering to any other of my whims, my wife served in the most loving way.

Recuperation also provided me with a lot of time to think. I remember, during my hospital stay, my thoughts drifted to my father Henry’s last days, as he spent them hospitalized. His short stay, however, was much more eventful than mine. 

Having been a widower for two years after our Mom Catherine’s death in May of 2002, Dad, at age 91, fought to stay independent, living in Philadelphia in that big Buist Avenue row home, alone. He drove, shopped, walked to the bank, made house repairs, and generally worried us to death. One vivid memory I have is driving down his street for a visit and seeing Dad, then 89, climbing down from the top of his upper roof after repairing a leak. Earlier, he had climbed out of his bedroom window onto the lower roof, leaned the ladder against the wall, and climbed to the top. 

This was a tough guy. 

Being that Dad was this way, one can understand his absolute unwillingness to become a burden to his children. However, no one can beat the aging process and, sooner or later, even the toughest of men face that reality. In Dad’s case, his diabetes and heart condition had started to take their tolls. I brought up the idea of his moving in with us, but that suggestion didn’t fly. Only after his sugar issues caused him to have brief, near-blackout episodes did he consent to end his driving. Recognizing the opportunity, I simply told him that these episodes could put an innocent child at risk, which was all I had to say. I became his chauffeur. The shortness of breath occurred more frequently too. At the age of 91, he caught a terrible cold and, after I took him to his doctor, he was admitted to Mercy Catholic Hospital. Dad was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and, after two days, we laid down the law and told him that the “jig was up,” and he’d be living with us from then on. He didn’t argue this time. 

The plan was for Dad to stay with my sister, Kathy, and her husband, George, for a few days to give us time to make all of the logistical arrangements for his move-in, so off he went to Kathy’s house in New Jersey. However, two days later, he had another bout with heart failure and was admitted to Virtua Hospital in Voorhees. This was not a good visit. Dad wanted out and had to be restrained at one point to prevent him from sneaking down the fire escape. When I visited him, he told me to untie the straps holding his arms to the bed. I said, “Not if you’re going to try to fly the coop!” He promised he’d behave, so I told the nurses to undo the restraints. He calmed down.

The next night was Friday, the 15^th of October. My wife and I, along with our daughter Rosie, went to visit. Rosie gave Dad a beautiful holy card of the Blessed Mother and tacked it onto the bulletin board so he could see it from his bed. Our son was studying for an exam and intended to visit the next day. Dad looked remarkably well. He was sitting up in bed and having a ball talking to an African-American nurse who happened to speak fluent Italian. I wished that we had an interpreter since their conversation was full of laughs, and we could only enjoy the moment from afar. After the nurse left, Dad took better notice of the holy card and asked to see it. 

What followed was amazing to us.

Dad took the card, kissed it, and then looked into space with the most peaceful, angelic smile I had ever seen. I immediately thought that he had a vision of his loving wife, whose devotion to our Blessed Mary was complete and endless. All three of us were awestruck by this expression on his face that none of us had ever witnessed. 

When he was finished with the card, Rosie reattached it to the board. I then told Dad that his grandson was studying and would come back with me tomorrow to see him. Dad, relaxed and lucid, simply said:

“I’m not gonna be here tomorrow.” 

I said, “Dad, don’t start that stuff again, you aren’t going anywhere until they release you.” Soon after, visiting hours were over, and it was time to leave. At 8:00 p.m., we left for home after kissing Dad goodbye. 

At 6:00 the next morning, Saturday, October 16^th, I received a call from Dad’s cardiologist, who told me that Dad had passed away peacefully at 2:00 a.m. Ironically, Dad had died on the same day, October 16^th, that Luann’s Dad had died many years earlier. 

Dad had done it his way. He wasn’t going to be a burden, and he sure wasn’t going to “be there tomorrow.”

God had other plans.

Charles Sacchetti is the author of two books, It’s All Good: Times and Events I’d Never Want to Change and Knowing He’s There: True Stories of God’s Subtle Yet Unmistakable Touch. Both are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online outlets. Contact him at [email protected]