It is more than a bummer. Much more!

They aren’t orphans… they aren’t widows…. What are they? Is it because they still have a loving parents alive that they are sometimes overlooked? I have thought about this since receiving the following text one year ago. This is from a young friend of mine (in her twenties) whose father had passed away seven months before Mark:

“Everyone’s lives seem to keep moving, they aren’t thinking about the loss of my dad every day like I am. But I feel so confused, because this loss is something I feel so deeply that it seems impossible for anyone to move on. At times it feels unfair, at times I feel guilty for grieving because I should be happy now. But I’m not, and I can’t, because this person I love left a hole that can’t be filled.”

Our children may be grown up but that doesn’t mean that their parents don’t still play a role in their lives. In fact, Mark became more involved with the children as they grew older and began their careers. He was a mentor and a cheerleader for each of them. Just this past week I received this text from a daughter, “I could use some dad advice getting ready for…….” and a son who very much needed time to discuss business with Dad. Wherever they are in their careers or personal lives… there is a hole that can’t be filled.

This post is written to give voice to some of our children. Three of them have written their memories of Mark’s passing and by the time you finish reading you will truly have the details memorized… but what does the death of a parent look like to a young adult? My hope is that you will read through these very personal accounts to the end and feel the emotions they express and then do something about it. Perhaps look for someone who needs you, write down your own feelings about a loss you’ve experienced, examine your life and prepare yourself for whatever is around the corner, etc. etc.

I am including them in the order in which they were written. I do have their permission to share these words and have made a few small edits….

Nathan’s journal – written immediately after Mark’s funeral:

It has been a difficult two weeks.  On Sunday, June 30, at 7:30 p.m., my father, Mark Andrus died.  We do not know the exact cause but suspect is was brain inflammation caused by immunotherapy.  The whole family was with him.

I will try to write as much as I can over the next few days about the experience.

My dad has been steadily decreasing.  By June 27 all of us felt the Spirit tell us it was time to go to Utah.  I was the Operations Supervisor that day and told my SQ/CC that I would have to drive up on Friday to Utah.  He gave me the next two weeks off.  That night Ashley and I confirmed with each other we had to go.  Ashley got everything together Thursday night/Friday morning.

Friday I went in, submitted leave and came home.  The original plan was to stop halfway.  As soon as we got in the car I knew we had to drive straight up.  We drove 14 hours and didn’t arrive until 2:00 a.m. in Santaquin.  It was a miracle the girls did not fuss or cry or anything.  This was a massive and true blessing from the Lord.  The Spirit was in our car, there is zero doubt in my mind.  This enabled us to get to Utah quickly.

When we got to Utah the girls really wanted to see Grandma and Grandpa.  We slept and then got up around 0800 and got ready to go to the hospital.  

Getting to the hospital and seeing Dad was hard.  The Spirit was extremely strong in the room and I instantly knew that Dad was going to die in the next day or two.  Mom had me go sit next to him.  He was not all there.  But he did look at me and kept mumbling and would then clearly state the name, “Jesus Christ” over and over again.  At one point he looked at me and said, “Sit on the mountain.” And then went back to mumbling.

I have no memories of the rest of the day.  I only remember sitting there watching Mom cry, Ashley comfort and offer relief to everyone, the girls behaving and feeling the celestial spirit in the room.

That evening we all left and went to Costco and got some food and snacks.  David went back to Mom’s house with us.

Sunday we woke up and went to the hospital.  Everyone made it in time for an old couple to bring us the sacrament.  The rest of the day was more of the same.  This time though we all vacated the room so that everyone could have alone time with Dad while he slept.  The girls had fun playing with the aunts and uncles.

Dad woke up when I got in there.  I gave him some water.  He was very agitated as I talked to him but then calmed down. I told him thank you for everything he did for me.  The last thing I said to him was sharing the story of how he helped me with my mission application and I ended up speaking 4 languages on my mission.

Ashley came in and sat with me for awhile.  She then got the girls and we sat in there as a family with Grandpa for a few minutes.  Dad muttered more about Jesus Christ.  I told Alyssa to tell Grandpa that she loved him.  Alyssa, “I love you Grandpa” and then Dad turned to Alyssa and as clearly as he could said, “I love you Alyssa.”  It was like he was healthy.  Those were the last words he said in mortality.

The rest of the family came back after that.  We sat and cried and watched as they slowly removed life support measures. The hardest was the oxygen.  It broke Mom.  Luckily for us Ashley was a great strength to Mom and all of us at the moment.  She was a pillar of light during these 2 days to everyone.

Dad held on for another hour or so.  I don’t remember how long it was.  At one point we all decided to eat some chocolate cake that Ashley and I bought on Saturday.  We all ate and enjoyed the cake.  As soon as we gathered all the plates and forks and threw them away Dad’s spirit left his body at 7:30 p.m.  It was cloudy as the sun was setting but at that moment the clouds parted and sunlight filled the room and Dad’s bed.  I do not know who all was there, but it was evident to me that Dad had ascended to Heaven and found peace and rest with the Savior whom my father dearly loved.

Emotions were raw.  Watching Mom cry was hard.  Seeing Greg cry was probably harder.  I’ve never seen him cry.

I stayed with Dad while they checked to see if he was dead.  And then that was that.  We packed up and left.  We drove Mom back and that night we made chocolate chip pancakes.  Alyssa helped make them.  Mom didn’t eat.

The next day we went to Walker Funeral Home in Payson and made funeral arrangements.

Kimberly’s Voice Memo – within weeks of the funeral:

I realized I never recorded the full story of Dad’s passing in my journal. I want to capture it here, as it’s easier to speak through my thoughts first. I’ll write it all out later.

It began on Wednesday, June 26. I was at my friend Morgan’s softball game, but I left early. I just had a weird feeling that something was off. Afterward, I went to the gym. I had a busy day overall, but while I was there, I missed a couple of calls from Mom. I figured I’d just call her back when I finished. I didn’t realize she was trying to FaceTime me so I could talk to Dad. I felt so stupid afterward.

Then Mom created a group chat called “Updates” with all the kids. She sent a message at 7:45 p.m., which said:

“Hey kids, we just called David, and I’m not sure he was prepared to see Dad in his current state. I started this chat to make sure everyone has current updates.

Dad is quite confused and having visionary hallucinations. A few days ago, he couldn’t get words out, and now he can hardly stop talking, but it’s mostly made-up. We don’t know if it’s brain tumors or morphine. This chemo causes it, too, but this started before chemo and the steroids.

Last week, we had a few days just like this. The morphine takes care of the air hunger, so we need it. He has both long-lasting and quick-acting pills, as well as IV morphine for panic. The chemo ends Friday night, so the earliest we could go home is Saturday—but I don’t think we’ll be going home soon. Blood counts will be a problem, and with this confusion and mobility issues, he’ll probably need rehab care.

I’ve told some of you different details, but I want you all to know how things really are.

I’m feeling calm, as well as blessed to be able to take care of Dad and be with him during all of this. Feel free to ask questions. I may post what he’s saying sometimes just to have someone to talk to.”

Reading that message while still sitting at the gym really freaked me out. Dad was hallucinating? That was terrifying. All the siblings started replying in the chat, showing support and asking questions. I asked what kinds of things he was hallucinating. Mom responded:

“You name it. Mostly bugs, water in the room, people—he’s seen all of you at one time or another. Things like, ‘Where did that cake come from?’ or ‘Greg will tell us,’ or ‘Scoot over, Kimberly.’ Or looking over his shoulder and saying, ‘Oh, hi Alyssa.’ ‘Look, there’s little David.’

He’s come up with a few conspiracy theories about why he’s in the hospital. So many things.

But everyone treats him gently and respectfully, which helps.

They found some fluid on his left lung, but not enough to drain.”

Mom finished by saying how grateful she was to be with Dad through all of this, despite how hard it was. I replied, “Scary to hear, but I prefer knowing over not knowing.”

That night, I went home and talked to my roommate Allie about what was going on. I told her about Dad’s hallucinations and how scary it was. At one point I even said, “Isn’t it crazy that I could just get a call one day and have to drop everything to drive to Utah?” We ended up creating a game plan for what we’d do if that ever happened.

The next morning—Thursday, June 27—I woke up to another text from Mom. My first class had been canceled that day, so I was still in bed when I read it. She sent it at 9:43 a.m. and said:

“I’ll send you an update, and then another text you may want to read later.

Dad is badly swollen today, so I think they’re planning a diuretic, which helps with the pain. That’s tricky, because it takes two people each time he’s out of bed. He’s currently having an ultrasound on both legs. His feet have been swollen since the day we arrived. He couldn’t even put on shoes to come in.”

Then came the message that really broke me:

“Here’s a text to read when you’re alone.

Twice now, Dad has said goodbye to me—once last week in the ICU and again this morning. Both times, he’s made a point to ask me to tell the kids how much he loves them. Neither time did he die, but both times he was coherent. I thought you’d want to know you’re all at the front of his thoughts.

Today, he told me he was going to a room of light and love. I told him to go gather light and love and then bring it back to us.

He drifted in and out, whispering ‘gather light and love’ over and over. At one point, he stopped to say, ‘Go forward to the light. Light is forward, and backward is dark,’ then went back to repeating ‘gather light and love.’

It was actually a very sweet time together. He wants to stay. I told him maybe he could go to the light, ask to be healed, and then return. I think he misunderstood me and thought I said ‘seal.’ So he said, ‘Break the seal and find light and love.’ That was good, too.”

Reading that text while lying in bed, I started to panic. Dad was talking about the light. He was saying goodbye. He was hallucinating, but some of it sounded spiritual—like he was seeing the other side.

I began texting and talking with friends, unsure of what to do. Should I leave? Should I go? I would only be missing one class and I could figure out my homework. I was sure my teachers would understand.

I kept calling Mom, asking her if I should come, and she kept saying things like, “It’s up to you. Come if you want, but you don’t have to. The doctors say things are okay.” But she wouldn’t give me a clear answer.

Part of me wanted to stay because one of my friends was getting together, and I knew I’d be missing a lot if I left. But my fear and concern kept growing, and I thought, “If Dad really is dying, and I stayed just to go to a class… I’ll regret that forever.”

Two friends gave me the push I needed. They reminded me that my family comes first and that I’d regret not going more than I’d regret going and things turning out okay.

So I made the decision. I quickly threw a few things in a bag—just the basics for a weekend. Within 20 minutes, I was on the road, driving down to Utah. I spent most of the drive trying to distract myself. I called a friend and stayed on the phone with them for much of the trip. I also listened to music, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I was about to walk into.

When I arrived in Utah, I drove straight to the hospital. I texted Mom to let her know I was there. She asked me to wait a few minutes. Eventually, she let me know I could come up, and I found my way to Dad’s room. When I walked in, Mom was sitting at Dad’s bedside, sobbing. That alone shocked me—because I had never seen my mom cry like that before. Not like this.

She was holding his hand. He was crying too, telling her over and over how much he loved her. He kept saying things like, “I’m going to find my way to heaven and I’ll wait for you there.”

I burst into tears the moment I walked in.

At first, Dad didn’t seem to recognize me. He was confused—probably thought I was a hallucination. Mom tried to explain that I was really there, and eventually he realized it.

He kept looking at Mom and saying:

“I’ll find you.”
“I promised I’d take care of this family, and I’d do it again just to be with you.” “I’ll remember Corinne forever. Cuddles, forever. I need to see your eyes.”

The doctor came in at one point, so Mom and I stepped aside. I hugged her and cried into her shoulder. I hadn’t seen Dad in months. He looked so different—so sick. He had no color in his skin. Just seeing him like that was heartbreaking enough… and then hearing him talk like he was dying shattered me.

That night, Dad kept doing this “countdown” thing—he’d say things like, “15 minutes… 5 minutes… it’s time.” It was terrifying. Still, I’m so grateful I went when I did. He had more clarity that night than he did at any point the rest of the weekend.

Mom stepped out to get us soup from the hospital bistro, so I sat alone next to Dad. That was when we had our last real conversation. He looked at me and said, “I love you. I’m so proud of you.”
He told me he missed when I was a little girl and that he wanted to hold me again. I leaned over and gave him a hug across the hospital bed.

To my surprise, he was able to lift his arms and hug me back—something Mom said he hadn’t been able to do all day and wouldn’t do again. Later, she told me he must have been given just enough strength for that one moment. He told me it was an eternal hug.

He reminded me to hold on to my covenants, and he said he would be with me when I missed him. Wanting to make sure he was really “there,” I asked, “Do you know I’m graduating soon?” He turned, looked right at me, eyes lit up, and said, “Yes, I know that.”

That moment broke my heart. I could see it in his eyes—he was trying so hard to push through the confusion, the hallucinations, the pain, the drugs… and just connect with me.

That night, Dad was deeply afraid of death. I could see it in how he spoke, how he looked at us. At one point, while doctors and nurses were moving in and out of the room, he turned to me and said, “Make sure I keep breathing. Make sure they let me breathe.”

He was panicked. Mom kept advocating for him with the medical staff, insisting they do whatever it took to help him stay comfortable and breathing.

Eventually, I left the hospital and drove to Greg’s house. I don’t remember clearly if I saw Greg and Jackie that night—I was in a fog. But I do remember texting David and telling him he had to come to Utah. He was hesitant—he didn’t think he could get off work—but I told him it was an emergency and that he needed to come right away.

Natalie got a plane ticket that same night. Nathan and Ashley also began preparing to drive up. They said that when they saw me driving from Idaho, they knew they needed to come too.

We were all suddenly gathering—racing against time—to say goodbye to Dad.
Friday, June 28, was probably one of the most traumatic days of my life. In many ways, it was harder than the day Dad actually passed.

That morning, I met Mom at the hospital. Dad wasn’t in his room when I got there—he was off getting tests done—so we used that time to pack up his belongings. They were moving him into a larger corner room, which had a space where Mom could sleep. It was a more comfortable setup for the family. While we were packing, David arrived. He hadn’t seen Dad yet. We updated him, but nothing could prepare him. When they wheeled Dad into the new room, David saw him and immediately started crying. Even in just 12 hours, Dad had changed dramatically. He looked worse—more swollen, more tired, more far away.

The three of us—Mom, David, and I—went through so much that day.

Dad was talking about heaven. He kept naming people from his life—some who had already passed—and telling us how he was “going to the light.” He mentioned his sister Lorana, who had died, and even said that Nathan’s baby had told him to go to the light. That was hard to hear.

He started doing countdowns again:
“15 minutes… 5 minutes… this is it… it’s time…”

He would testify of Jesus Christ, talk about Heavenly Father, and tell us how much he loved us. Over and over, he said he wanted the whole family to be there. At several points during the day, we honestly thought he was about to die. He seemed so sure it was happening. We would all gather around his bed, crying, not knowing what to do. Watching him talk like that—so sure, so ready—was gut-wrenching.

Mom was falling apart. At one point, she was just sitting beside him, crying uncontrollably. I knew she needed a break. So I told David to stay with Dad, and I took Mom outside. We walked around the hospital to get some fresh air and clear our heads. But David called us, panicked, and said we needed to come back right away. He thought Dad was about to die. That whole day felt like a string of false alarms—but each one was real to us. We were constantly on edge.

David gave Dad a blessing that he would live long enough for the rest of the family to arrive.

Later, while Mom was sitting with Dad, I noticed David had disappeared. I peeked into the little side room and found him in there praying. It was just the three of us—me, David, and Mom—trying to carry the emotional weight of what was happening, and I felt this heavy responsibility knowing the rest of the family wasn’t there yet.

Eventually, Greg and Jackie came up to the hospital. We sat together around Dad’s bed and cried. That night, Nathan and Ashley arrived in Santaquin with their girls. We told them not to come up yet, thinking maybe Dad would last through the night. The doctor even told us, he might not make it through the night but Mom sent us home to rest. David, Greg, Jackie, and I all drove back to Greg’s house and tried to sleep.

We were exhausted, numb, and scared—watching time slip away while hoping Dad would hold on long enough for the rest of the family to say goodbye. By Saturday morning, everyone had arrived. We all made our way back up to the hospital. That day felt different—not less painful, but quieter. More sacred.

The girls (Alyssa and Abby) walked the halls with us. We took turns with them so they wouldn’t get overwhelmed. But even they were calm and respectful, like they sensed something holy was happening.

Dad wasn’t talking as much as he had on Friday. He was clearly declining. He was still on oxygen, still swollen, and still on morphine. He couldn’t eat or drink—we tried, but he struggled to swallow. Even going to the bathroom was hard. His hands, legs, and feet were puffed up and heavy. It was so hard to see one of the strongest men we knew so helpless.

On Friday, he had started saying strange things—he even started swearing, which was so unlike him. That’s when it really hit us that his brain was deteriorating, breaking down. It made everything feel even more real, more urgent. Still, even in his confusion, he was testifying of Christ. He repeated gospel phrases over and over—words like:

“We’re free.”
“Jesus Christ and family.” “Jesus Christ is in the temple.” “Families are forever.”
“God is God.”
“God is invincible. God is white.”

Sometimes he would just stare upward, his eyes darting around like he was watching something we couldn’t see. It felt like there were angels in the room. There were moments when his words didn’t make sense, and we’d gently say, “We don’t understand you, Dad.” And he’d respond, crystal clear, “Oh, I know.” It felt like maybe he was trying to tell us things we weren’t supposed to know—things beyond the veil.

He kept repeating little phrases, sometimes cryptic and sometimes beautiful. At one point, he said he saw: “Lights. Beautiful colors. A couch. A judge.”

Each of us tried to get a moment alone with him. He was asleep most of the day, but we still went in, one at a time, just to whisper final goodbyes or sit with him in silence. When I had my turn, most of the lights were off. I knew I had already said goodbye in a way, but this felt like the real thing. I knew this would be the last time I would be alone with him. Even though he was sleeping, I needed that quiet moment. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but I poured out my heart.

We were all quiet and solemn, but not in a bad way. There was a strange peace in the room. Like time had slowed down. We were just soaking in the time we had left. There was no boredom, no urgency—just love.

I think David, Nathan, Ashley, and the girls eventually went back to Santaquin that night. The rest of us stayed longer. At one point, Greg even wondered aloud if we should call Nathan back, but eventually we decided it was okay to let everyone rest. We all knew the end was close.

We all woke up Sunday morning to a text from Mom at around 5:30 a.m. She told us it was time—

Dad was now on comfort measures only, and he had been telling everyone he was ready to go.

We all knew: today was the day.
We got dressed in church clothes, and made our way to the hospital. When we arrived, the sacrament was being administered in Dad’s hospital room. He had been asking for it all weekend—but ironically, he was asleep when it finally came. That felt like a tender sadness—like even the things he’d asked for were now slipping beyond reach.

His health had sharply declined. His body was swollen everywhere—legs, feet, hands, face.
He hadn’t eaten or drinken anything all weekend. We tried, but he couldn’t swallow. Even breathing had become a full-time struggle.
He spent most of the day just laboring to breathe, his eyes barely opening.

Watching him like that… It was unbearable.

Here was this strong, vibrant man—a father, a leader—now lying still and weak. So frail. So worn.

Sometime during the day, we each decided to take turns being alone with him. He was unconscious, but we needed those last quiet moments. I was one of the first few to go in.

The room was dim. Most of the lights were off. He was sleeping, unmoving.
It was scary—but also peaceful.
Even though I had already said goodbye in earlier moments, this one felt final. I don’t remember what I said. I just know I told him I loved him. We each had our moment. I’m grateful for that.

The rest of the day moved slowly. We sat with him. Talked in hushed voices. Held hands. Cried. Prayed.

There was a weight in the room—but also a spiritual clarity, like heaven was close. Then, at 7:32 p.m., Dad took his final breath.

We were there.
He passed surrounded by his wife and children, the people he had always lived for, always sacrificed for. His life ended the way he lived it: surrounded by love and full of faith.

We were devastated. The hardest part of the day was taking Mom away from Dad’s bedside.

But there was also peace. Peace in knowing we had been with him. That we hadn’t missed it. That he wasn’t alone.

Jackie – written six months after Mark’s passing. I asked her to write this for me because I had recorded everything up until “Friday” for Mark’s mom but had not yet been able to type these final days:

6 Months Later
This is not something that I thought I would have to sit down and write about.

The Thursday before Dad passed away, I got a phone call from my surgeon’s office. They were confirming that the insurance was not approving my [upcoming surgery and to discuss scheduling conflicts], but what came out of my mouth was “No, my dad is probably going to die this weekend, and so I won’t be able to have surgery next week.” The Spirit hit me so strongly when I said that, and to be honest I believe that the Spirit is what put those words into my mouth. I was in the car on my way to a homevisit and I had just pulled up to their house. I wanted to sit and cry, but an attorney was meeting me for the visit and so I just jumped out of the car and had to be cheerful and get through the meeting. When I got back to my car, my supervisor had just emailed my entire team that she was starting to divide my cases up for when I was gone. I had to email her and tell her that my surgery was cancelled. This part of the story is important, because I had been preparing all month to take the next two months off, and so it was very easy for me to take the time off following Dad’s death. While I was annoyed that my surgery was cancelled, it all ended up being a tender mercy for me.

By Thursday night/Friday morning, all the other siblings had decided to travel back to Utah to be together. I don’t know why, but I did not feel a need to be up in Salt Lake. Greg asked me if I wanted to go have time alone with Dad, but that didn’t feel right. So, I went to work for a couple of hours and then decided to go out to Genola to water the garden. As I was driving there, Ashley called me to talk about what was going on. They were on their way up from New Mexico and we talked the entire time that I was watering. As I was watering the grapes, Greg started calling me, but I figured I would call him back when I was done. He called again and then started texting me that I should come to Salt Lake and that he was headed there. David had arrived and reported that it was more serious than we all thought. I hung up with Ashley and packed up my gardening tools and headed out of Genola. Mom had asked me to bring up a few things from the house and so I stopped in Santaquin to grab those and then headed up. I did not want to listen to music or an audio book and so I called my friend, Mary and told her that Dad was dying and she kept me company over the phone the entire drive up to the Huntsman.

When I got there, Greg, Mom, David and Blee were all sitting by the windows and Dad was asleep in the bed. We spent the evening together, crying and laughing. Dad was in and out of consciousness. Friday night and Saturday night blur together.

Saturday morning, Greg and I loaded up the siblings who were with us and we drove up to the Huntsman again. Shortly after we got there, Nathan and Ashley and their girls came. Kimberly and I went down to the airport to go pick up Natalie. We all took a break from Dad’s room and went to get lunch at the cafeteria. I was honestly surprised that we were able to eat. There have been times in that cafeteria when I could not stomach food, and so it was a tender mercy that we were able to take care of ourselves and eat.

Multiple times on Saturday and later on Sunday, we took turns taking Mom on walks outside in the courtyard. I am grateful to have been able to be a support to Mom during this time. There is something humbling to be a daughter and to minister to your mom. It has deepened my love for her in a way that I did not know was possible. My prayers during this time, and during the last 6 months have been mostly for her. Watching her mourn is one of the hardest things about this whole experience. She has so much faith and I hope to one day love someone as much as she loves Dad. It was an honor to be able to be part of the decision making, especially on Sunday when we decided whether or not to put Dad on hospice.

Saturday afternoon/ early evening, we went to Costco to get food and to have an excursion. Then, we went back to the hospital. Initially we had planned on picking up Kimberly, who we left with Mom, but then Greg, Natalie and I decided to stay longer and we were there until Mom was ready to go to sleep. We all sat around his bed for hours and laughed and cried. At one point, Greg said “Dad, the rule is that you can’t go until you tell us who is here to get you.” He got so emotional while he said this and that just about broke my heart. We sang to Dad. He always liked that song, “Go Light Your World” and so we sang that to him. It started as a little bit of a joke, but honestly, if that is the message that Dad really wanted us to know, I guess it stuck with us. We said family prayer together standing around his bed.

Sunday morning, we drove back up to the hospital. Greg and I listened to hymns all the way up and I think I cried the whole way. But not because I was sad, but because I could imagine the heavenly choirs singing the hymns right there and I was filled with so much peace. I don’t know how sorrow and peace can coincide. We got to the hospital right as the senior couple was preparing to give the family the sacrament. That was a sacred experience. We all sat and wept as the sacrament was passed around. I know that my heart was holding onto the sacrament prayer, specifically that the Spirit would be with us as we went through the day. Once the sacrament was over, we all sat around the bed for a while until Mom suggested that we each take one on one time with dad. For the next couple of hours we sat out in the lobby while everyone had time alone with Dad. By this point, we had decided to put Dad on hospice and so the social worker came and talked to us. Alyssa and Abby kept us entertained while we all sat there together.

When I got to go talk to Dad, I didn’t know what to say. What is one supposed to say, especially when it doesn’t feel like goodbye. For the first couple of minutes, I just held his hand. I did not want to let go. The only thing that I could think of to say was that I was going to be okay if he needed to go, that he would not need to worry about me, because I could figure it out. I kept repeating that, and it was probably more for me to hear than for Dad. I knew deep down that he knew I was going to be okay. Dad was asleep the whole time I was in there, but if he was awake I know that he would probably tell me that I would be okay without him here. I knew Dad knew I have a testimony and I don’t plan on abandoning that, but I told him that as well. I also read a scripture that Dad had shared with me at the beginning of the year. (Hebrews 12:1-3) I told Dad that I would be able to go through his passing because I had hope in the joy of our reunification on the other side of the veil. I didn’t want to let go of Dad’s hand and so we sat there in silence for a while and I just cried. The cleaning lady did come in and cleaned his bathroom, which was awkward. Before I said goodbye, I did let Dad know that it was his job now to find my husband and make him hurry up and find me, but I figured that he was already planning on that. Then, I said goodbye, gave him a kiss on the head and left the room. I did not cry when I left the room, but felt at peace.

Once everyone else had said their private goodbyes, we went back into the room to wait as a family. We had the sweetest nurse and she had told us that at some point, because he was now on hospice, they would have to remove his oxygen. This was hard, and so they gave us a few minutes before they came back at the shift change and the nurse took the oxygen out of his nose. Mom kept shaking her head, she did not want them to do that, but they turned off the machines so we couldn’t watch his stats anymore. This was rather a dramatic moment, and we were all crying. I was holding Abby on my lap and sitting next to Ashley. Thank goodness for Ashley, who just held me while I cried into her shoulder. Little Abby kept wiping at my tears.

Eventually we all sat around the bed, and I found myself at Dad’s side, across the bed from Mom, where I could hold one of Dad’s hands. I kept hold of his hand the rest of the time, I didn’t want to let go. We had bought chocolate cake at Costco the day before and Nathan dished everyone up a slice. Once we had finished eating our cake, Dad’s breathing changed. We all sat and watched him for the next fifteen minutes. He had some weird breathing things and would open his eyes and cough. Each time, he squeezed my hand. Then, he squeezed my hand and took his last breath. The sun was bursting through the clouds outside the window. Mom said “who goes without having someone come get him.” Then, we all laughed. That seems like a fitting way for Dad to go, and I am sure he would not have wanted it any other way.

We laughed and wept until the doctor finally came and pronounced him. We all stood around his bed for a long time just crying and looking at him. I never want to watch Mom cry like that again, it was painful for me. We all took turns holding each other and it was a very special moment for everyone. We said another family prayer together standing next to his bed. Then, just like that, it was time to pack up. We got Mom’s stuff ready and then let her just sit by Dad until it was time for her to go. Greg and I stayed behind to get Dad’s pillow and blanket and to notify the nurses that we were gone. Once everyone left, we took a few minutes alone to stand by his body. It was special to take his blanket off and to fold it. It makes me wonder about the angels who folded Christ’s burial clothes. Then, we said goodbye and left the room.

Thoughts:
Dad’s hospital room was a sacred space. There were angels around us the entire weekend.

There were so many tender mercies during the weekend, that it was obvious that there were many people on the other side of the veil who wanted to make sure that we were being taken care of. It is no wonder that I felt peace. It was a tender experience for me to take care of Dad during the weekend. By take care of, I mean that I helped him take some drinks of water. While living with Dad, he rarely let me help him, and so it was special for me to be able to offer some help when he asked for it, even though it probably didn’t help very much.

Dad never stopped testifying about Christ. He was in and out of consciousness the entire weekend, and for the most part he was unable to speak. I think that was because he was visiting the other side of the veil and we all know Dad, he can’t keep a secret very well and he would have told us everything that he saw on the other side. But, when he could speak, he testified of Christ. He told us that he would be with us in the temple, and that we could be together with Christ. That is all I want. Dad had gotten a blessing from the Bishop right after his diagnosis. He had told Dad that this experience would help him have a stronger relationship with Christ. I believe that Dad took that to heart and his last words were a testimony of the power of that relationship.

One of the only coherent things Dad called me was a “goofball.” Now, take that however you want, but I am content being one of Dad’s goofballs. When he said that, it made me think about how he always told me that I was such a happy child and that for a time in my life that person was gone. It made me happy to know that Dad could see that happy child in me again.

As I have reflected back on this whole experience, I have tried to put into words the things that I felt during this time. I went into this having the faith that Dad could be healed. I would not have been surprised if he had just sat up in bed and was cured. It was totally a possibility. I knew that he had had many blessings of healing, and I knew that there was enough faith in the room to bring him back to us. At the same time, I had faith knowing that if it was time for Dad to leave us on earth, that that was also God’s plan. That seems a simple explanation for the powerful feelings that raged inside me. It would be easy to be angry with God and to ask why He did not heal Dad when He could have, but I knew that it was also in His hands to take Dad back with Him. I guess that that is why I am at peace, because I went into this with the faith to trust God. Over the last six months I have certainly been mad and cried that this was not fair, and that Dad could do a lot of good here, with us, but there have been times of complete peace because I know that Dad is doing his work on the other side. I still wish he was here and I miss him so much, but I am grateful, and will always be grateful that I will be with him again one day. I want to live every day so that Dad is proud of me. This experience has in a way deepened my relationship with Heavenly Father, because I want Him to be proud of me too, and it feels more real now that both of them are in Heaven, rooting for me and watching over me.