On Friday morning, February 23, 2007, my father, Bob David Sr., took his last breath. He was 81. I can hardly convey my gratitude for the way events played out over the last trying months, days, and hours of his life, and for all the gifts he gave me during that time and following. Here are a few details.

Two days after a large outdoor get-together in July 2006 to celebrate my recent wedding, Bob Sr. came down with pneumonia. Given his severe emphysema and history of heart disease, this meant trouble from then on. He spent 77 days back and forth between the hospital and rehab before returning home in October. Since he had overcome considerable health setbacks the previous year, he held onto hope that he would be back on his feet, driving around in his Grand Marquis, playing cards with his buddies at the club.

With grace he accepted the reality that his physical capabilities were in steady decline. Still, he kept up the simple prescribed arm and leg exercises, completed twice-daily loops around the first floor of the house with his walker and portable oxygen tank, managed his meds, and monitored his oxygen and sugar levels. He welcomed the devoted service of a friendly, helpful hospice staff and his health plan's visiting nurse. Yet aside from three very short, labored, accompanied walks outside the house, he never left his home again.

My father grew too weak for stairs. The last several weeks saw him confined to his bed. He ventured an unsteady trip to the bathroom only if a health aid or I was present to make sure he would make it to and fro safely. He spoke openly to me about his struggles, frustrations, hopes for the end to come soon, and concerns that my mother would be all right and cared for. But he never suffered a bad mood or complained. It disappointed him that more of his friends and nieces and nephews hadn’t come to visit, but he appreciated those that had.

My dad was an avid and astute card player—Pinochle and Poker his preferred games. Yet playing any card game could engage him—he believed the concentration helped keep his mind sharp. So he and I played Gin Rummy up to the day before he died. During our last game, his hands shook, cards slipped from his grasp, and he lost focus. This was hard for me to watch. He grew mildly flustered, perhaps a bit embarrassed, yet never angry. We finished the game and agreed it was time to stop.

In his final days, he hallucinated, or had visions (hard to know which!). He conversed with people not present, while still cognizant of anyone in the room. I released an abrupt laugh when out of the blue he asked, “Are the horses coming over on planes from Canada?" Later I could interpret this as his making contact with a world to which only those close to death have access, animal life being part of that world.

My father was the last surviving of 8 siblings. The afternoon before he died, his niece Leslie and her husband Mike visited. He told them he could feel, next to his right shoulder, the presence of Leslie's mother Elsie, his sister who had passed a few years earlier. At the same time, he could see Elsie standing next to Leslie. (After the funeral, Leslie confided that she had always wanted to, but never could, “see” her mother or feel her presence after her death.) When I arrived, my dad recounted this experience, as well as one from the day before of seeing his eldest brother Joe seated in the chair at the foot of the bed. Leslie added that he had also mentioned Jack, the youngest sibling, as having appeared.

All the previous night, my father had been restless and agitated, his mind racing and eyes bugged. For a while he obsessed over what he’d imagined to be a rifle propped up at the end of the hall. He was determined to get to that rifle. My mother, herself nearly 81, legs weakened from a neuromuscular disease, had to keep pulling him back to his bed. In constant alert to my father’s wild state, she worried and got no sleep. It exhausted her. Hearing about this, I knew I had to stay with him through this night.

I returned to my parents’ home around 11:00PM. My father continued the hallucinations/visions. He lay in bed with eyes rolled upward and fixed; he didn’t blink. It was odd to behold. All the while he was aware of my presence. Periodically he broke from his communing and conversing with the invisibles to look over and speak with me. I left his bedside for a momentary respite but fell asleep for half an hour in the recliner in the next room. During which time he cell-phoned my mother in her room and asked in frustration where she had been; he had been "calling [her] for the past hour"!

All right, now I was determined to keep a tight vigil! The rolled-up eyes persisted. Twice some enigmatic but immediate concern urged him out of bed. Twice I funneled him back. Twice he sat up to urinate. Because his hands were unsteady, I held the urinal bottle for him. But nothing came forth either time. Around 4:30, as he finally rested still and quiet, his bladder released. I cleaned him up, changed his Depends, turned him back and forth as I replaced the bedding. Then immediately his bladder released the other half of its contents. I repeated the whole cleanup procedure and knew I couldn't do this every night! Only later did I realize what a gift it was to care for him at this basic level (and only have to do it this one occasion).

Around 5:30 he lay flat on his back (unusual for him), eyes searching upward. He saw three women. It immediately struck me that they were likely his three sisters. "Who are they, Dad?" "They're too far away; I can't tell." "What are they doing?" "They're playing in the sand... And there's my sweetheart, what's her name, right here," as he motioned with his hand to his lower left. His next sentences were incoherent to me, but twice he uttered the word "fingertips," and at one point he reached out and upward with his left hand as if to try to take hold.

He grew silent and seemed to drift far away. A few minutes elapsed. Then he sat up abruptly, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and muttered to himself in a plaintive voice, "I can't believe I'm still alive." I just watched him. He lay down again, and with no further words, appeared to go right back to his busy other world. Five minutes later he called suddenly and sharply, "Get me up, Bob!" His whole face started to tighten; something seemed to seize him. He choked, gasped, tightened further. I grabbed a tray and tried to coax him to spit up whatever was in his mouth—I glimpsed a little blood—but he was locked into his final throes. The struggle—the image of his straining face now etched into my mind—lasted but seconds. I had read in a booklet prepared by a hospice nurse that sometimes a tear appears in one eye of a dying person. She quotes another nurse who interprets this as the dying person saying, "I love you but I must go now." I saw that tear and dabbed it with a tissue.

My father was ‘gone’ but tiny intermittent gasps continued. I roused my mother so we could both be with him for the final breath. It was 6:00AM. Minutes passed before we were certain he was actually dead. (That was strange. I thought the moment would be obvious. I thought I'd feel his spirit leave.) Then we shut off the oxygen concentrator, and all was quiet.

A stunning sun rose and shone bright the next three days as family and friends rallied strong. I know the sunshine helped everyone. A wet blanket of snow greeted funeral day. The heavens, overcast, commented with a light shower of flakes throughout the service and interment. Then the sun re-emerged and held fast again over the next three days.

Everyone knew my father didn't have long; no one expected him to go that night. I may be wrong, but I feel his will was the maestro’s hand through this finale. He wanted to spare my mother the burden of being alone to watch him die or find him dead. My presence—the one night I stayed—would help. He always knew how to handle his business.

Others said about him: "He never, ever, ever let a friend down.” "He was the rock we all hung onto." "If you have Bob as a friend, it makes life easier.” "Everyone should have an uncle Bob." "He was a true gentleman." I would add that he never made excuses, never made anyone feel bad about making a mistake, was ultra responsible, loyal, true and consistent with his values, and good-humored. And aside from the incredible adult he modeled for me, who faced death with great dignity, he allowed me to witness his transition. For a man who was hardly religious and never spoke of spiritual or otherworldly things, he was able to have, demonstrate, and partially articulate an experience of the Mysterious. To me, this is a great expression of hope—hope for us all.

Shortly after his passing, my mother taped a photo on her bedroom wall by the lightswitch—an 8x10 headshot of my father grinning wryly at the viewer. One night she asked if looking at this picture made me feel sad. Before I could answer, she said she couldn’t help smiling every time she saw it, because it depicts closely who he was in life, and he's looking right at her. This brought a huge, warm smile to my heart. I had hoped I had reassured my dad that my mother would be well cared for. Now here he was, helping out in his uncanny way.