This is a memoir piece for my online writers’ workshop, The Red Dress Club. This week’s prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself.
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The nights were the hardest, and the most precious.
During the day there was a constant low drone. Nurses in the hallway, doctors muttering into dictaphones, somebody always taking vitals, visitors’ shoes clacking miles to nowhere on the hall tile. Their footsteps beat various arrhythmias, echoing in my chest like strong bass.
There were good nights and bad nights. The bad ones still haunt me. Sometimes I wake in a cold sweat, hearing the shrill beeping of an empty Dilaudid pump.
I found many things at my father’s deathbed. Love. Fear. A strengthening of faith. And forgiveness.
All I had to do was ask, and one night, as he was conscious, I knelt beside him and held his hand. His beautiful hands, swollen, bruised.
“Daddy, can you forgive me?” I asked. His eyes snapped to mine in surprise.
“Forgive you? For what?”
I cradled his hand between both of mine and thought of 30 years of sins against this man. The white lies, the tantrums, spilled milk and iced tea. The not-so-white lies. Words thrown like daggers in anger. All the times I could have done more, given more, loved more.
“For everything. I know I’ve done so many things in life that have hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for anything and everything I’ve done to hurt you, and please, please, forgive me.”
He didn’t like for us to cry, but we were the only ones there, and suddenly my whole heart was there on the bed between us, beating, waiting, hoping that something in my life made up for all the inadvertent sleights and disappointments.
“Of course I forgive you,” he said. His eyes were clear, and it was like looking into a mirror. I have my father’s eyes, and I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as they were in that moment. They took in the whole of me, flawed, and they radiated unconditional love and acceptance. He squeezed my hand, and then the drugs pulled him back under.
Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.
I am forgiven, and each time my son or daughter threatens to run away or yells that they don’t love me anymore, I try to remember my father’s eyes. Some day my father’s eyes will look down on my children as I tell them that they, too, are forgiven.
Angie…
what a gift.
You have given me such a perfectly beautiful gift this morning by writing and sharing this piece. I want to reach right through the computer and hug you and then buy you a cup of coffee so we can sit and chat about love and loss and how freaking amazingly talented you are.
This made me cry. Family is such an amazing thing.
I don't set out to make everybody cry, really I don't. If it helps, I cried while writing this. But they were good tears. This was one of the most beautiful, yet heart-rending, moments in my life.
oh boy. here come the hormones.
absolutely stunning, Angie. you did a tremendous job w/ this.
omg, those last few paragraphs blew me away.
Oh Angie, I love the emotional rawness of this post. It's beautiful. Just like you.
The image of your heart there between you, wow! And what an amazing moment between the two of you. Took my breath away…. Excellent!!
Grace fell like rain …. what a beautiful line!
Visiting from TRDC–so glad I did! You're a beautiful writer. What a powerful moment for you and your dad.
Well shit, Ang. I'm at work and effing crying all over the place. You need to put an effing warning at the front of this thing, “DO NOT READ AT THE OFFICE.” What an amazing piece of writing. What an amazing gift your dad gave you. And what an amazing gift you gave your father–a perfect relationship with his daughter on his way to heaven. Damn, now I'm snotting everwhere.
Oh, Amy, I'm sorry! If it helps, I cried while writing it. And thank you for your comment–I never thought about it as a gift the other way around–as one I gave him as well, but you know, it was. It really was.
This was so beautifully written. Sad, heartfelt, heart wrenching.
I was right there with you and wanted to hug the both of you. Tightly.
So many words struck me. These especially: “my whole heart was there on the bed between us, beating, waiting, hoping that something in my life made up for all the inadvertent sleights and disappointments.”
I'll keep this one close to my heart. it makes me want to go hug my loves right now. i think I will.
Thank you for writing a post that must have been so very difficult to do so!
Ok gotta go fix my mascara…not water/tears proof. Beautiful!
You did a great job of drawing a picture of a hospital late at night. And the line about Grace falling like rain–knocked my socks off!
This was beautiful. So touching. So much of the core of the moments you shared with him.
This line: “Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.” Holy cow. Amazing. So real. I looked over at your picture and could see you and your father, and your eyes. Beautiful.
As I read this I thought if my father.
All the things I've said to him over 30years.
Your writing is powerful.
Beautiful.
It's hard to comment appropriately on someone's beating heart lying on the page.
This was beautiful. Thank you.
It is so hard to ask for forgiveness, but this showed us why it is important. You've left nothing unsaid, and so while this post was sad, it was also really uplifting.
I loved the mention that you have your father's eyes. I would have loved for you to take that metaphor further.
Thank you for sharing this moment with us.
This is so beautiful. Such a wonderful gift he gave you. A wonderful lesson that you learned and can pass on to your children.
Just beautiful.
Angie, I don't know what to say except, “Thank you”! I, too, asked my Dad's forgiveness for all the same stuff a couple of years before he passed away. Your word picture of your heart on the bed is so accurate…in part for me because I wasn't a parent yet and had not experienced the unconditional love one has for their child. So glad you took the risk to ask. Powerful writing, Angie, that shows how forgiveness is so needed.
I think this is a beautiful piece, Angie. Really beautiful.
I think it could be even stronger, and that's what this concrit is about.
Also, when I do concrit for a clearly emotional, personal piece, keep in mind I'm strictly looking at words. I don't want you to think I'm insensitive. 😉
Okay. I think you can lose the beginning and start with “I found many things at my father's deathbed.”
Get me into the story. Which is not at all about people walking around the halls. I'd rather read description about the room your father was in, or what he looked like as you gazed at him.
“I found many things at my father’s deathbed. Love. Fear. A strengthening of faith. And forgiveness.
All I had to do was ask, and one night, as he was conscious, I knelt beside him and held his hand.”
I would put a period after ask. “All I had to do was ask. One night, as he was conscious…”
The conversation between the two of you was very, very well done.
LOVED this part: “He didn’t like for us to cry, but we were the only ones there, and suddenly my whole heart was there on the bed between us, beating, waiting, hoping that something in my life made up for all the inadvertent sleights and disappointments.”
The image of your heart on the bed was amazing. But did you mean “slights”? “Sleight” is crafty, cunningness, like sleight of hand
“Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.” I think you could say “bathing me” since we know you're his daughter.
The ending was gorgeousness. Absolute gorgeousness.
Dammit. Here's my criticism: you've got Amy Grant singing in my head.
This really is beautifully told. Their footsteps beat various arrhythmias, echoing in my chest like strong bass. …one of my favorite phrases.
I also like how you remarked on an item after mentioning it: his hand. His beautiful hands, swollen, bruised.
It is usually those post that have us crying over our keyboards as we pound them out that are the most beautiful and honest. Thank you for sharing.
you captured this moment just perfectly.
@Cheryl, thank you so much for such comprehensive critique! I really appreciate your taking the time to do that.
You're right, I absolutely could trim the beginning. And yes, I did mean “slight.” Didn't see that when I read through it–thanks for catching it.
So glad you (and others) liked the sentence about the heart on the bed between us. I almost took it out at the last minute.
@MadWoman, sorry about the Amy Grant. Eek. Thrilled you liked the footsteps sentence b/c it was a hard one to get right, and I was happy with the way it turned out.
Angie…this is stunning and beautiful and why I want to write!
“Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.”…that blew me away, as did the last paragraph.
I'm including this on Saturday in my favorite posts of the week
Wow, Natalie, thank you!
Must go start the twins on bathtime, but all of you with your wonderful comments have made this an incredible day for me. Thank you so much.
Angie,
I loved everything about this except you having to lose your father too soon…it's always too soon.
My favorite part was the reconstruction of the actual conversation, just so lovely. What a precious memory.
This made me think of how little patience I can have for my mom sometimes and that I should knock that off.
Tracy
This made me cry “I knelt beside him and held his hand. His beautiful hands, swollen, bruised.” it broke my heart.
Great piece, very touching.
gorgeous. completely lovely. what a gift you father gave you. I imagined in his eyes that he'd forgiven you long before you asked.
Wow. This touched me. Thank you for posting it.
what a tender moment to share with your readers. thank you for writing this, and what a sweet tribute to your dad, too.
This is so beautiful. Really, really beautiful.
I have nothing else to say which could do it justice.