It Is Well With My Soul

                             

         October 30, 2006. I went to work that day despite some premonition this might be my 92-year old Papa’s last day and I should be at his bedside.

         An hour after I processed a pile of documents from my in-box, I heard June, my supervisor, who was on the other side of the cubicle, say,

         “Okay. Hold on just a minute…Miriam, George is on the line.”

         I jolted. George never called me willy-nilly. And why is he calling the supervisor and not me directly? Besides, I could count with my fingers the times he called me for all the years I’ve been at work.

         “Mayr, the nurse at Paloma called. Papa passed away at eight this morning.”

         I sensed the lump in his throat as he spoke in broken syllables.

         “I’ll come home right now.”

         “Let’s go. I’ll drive you,” June stood by my door and offered, just like the time when George fell off the roof five years past.

         That’s what I loved about June. She was not just my supervisor. She was always there for me. She was like my sister. In fact, her birthday is the same day as my sister’s. So, we referred to each other as sisters.

         June dropped me off at the Coaster Station in Oceanside, where my car was parked and she drove right back to work in San Diego. When I got to Paloma Nursing Home Care in Vista, my sister, Hannie, and Mama were already there. They were outside, waiting for me. I scanned the surroundings and noticed Dodong, our brother, was not there.

         “Where is Dodong? Why isn’t he here? Does he know?” I asked.

         Mama just looked at me. My eighty-two year old mother was too disoriented to say anything. I turned to Hannie with a searching look.

         “Can you call him? I do not feel any obligation to call him because he’s still hostile towards me,” Hannie said.

         I dialed his number and got through.

         “Dong, come over right now. Papa is gone. We need you here.”

         “You can handle that yourselves. Hannie said I’m not one of you,” he said.

         “Are you going to persists on nursing your misgivings towards Hannie at the expense of Mama and Papa? Come on, give it up! This is your last time to bid goodbye to your father. Don’t do anything now you’ll regret later. Please suspend your misgivings just for now and get over here. I don’t care if you come half-heartedly. Just come! We’re not going in unless you’re with us.”

         That cajoling did the trick and he gave in.

         When we went to Papa’s room, it had only been two hours since he died. How I wished he was aware we were in his room and could hear us pray and sing his favorite hymn one more time to bid him farewell.

         I touched his feet. They were dead cold. Then I thought about last night when I saw him still alive. I should have kept his feet warm with thick socks. Why didn’t I think of that? I also thought of the caregiver who gave up hooking the oxygen tubes in Papa’s nostrils because Papa kept on pulling them out. I was outraged that he put the tubes away; but, why was I so withdrawn? Why did I not say anything to the caregiver and insist on making Papa breathe through the oxygen tubes? I felt guilty for not doing enough for him. But what’s the point? It’s over now.

         The nurse who attended Papa that morning walked in. She said, in his last hour, he talked to himself non-stop.

         “Really? Papa had not spoken a word for more than six months. All he did was give you a penetrating look as if to figure out who you were and left it at that,” I said to the nurse.

         “It appeared he was singing and praying when I delivered his breakfast,” she said.

         “What else did he do?”

         “That was it. When I came back to take his tray, his eyes were closed. There was a smile on his face. I checked his pulse. I felt nothing. I called the doctor. He confirmed Mr. Undag was gone.”

         Papa knew it was his last hour. I believe God welcomed him home that morning before those eyes closed for good. A quiet peace engulfed us knowing he will be in a better place.

         “I’ll step out and give you privacy,” the nurse broke the silence.

         We huddled around him in a semi-circle, with our arms chained together, holding each other’s hand. Then, from my heart and soul, came a melody. The lyrics flowed as Mama, Hannie and Dodong joined me singing:

“When peace like a river attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea, billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well; it is well, with my soul.”