Morning Train

At 87, Dad hadn’t wrenched on cars in some time. Even so, he remained spry, active and mentally sharp, living independently in a small apartment in Arizona. His living situation didn’t trouble me too much, even though I lived over 900 miles away.

In March of this year, without warning, Dad contracted Covid, the global enemy that shut down the whole world. Covid progressed into long-haul Covid, a lingering, baffling sickness that left him completely immobile. Dad’s upbeat, optimistic personality withered. None of my cheerful pep-talks or fervent cajoling could persuade him to engage in physical therapy. Teams of skilled, well-meaning medical staff tried every day to get him out of bed, but he refused.

Dad hadn’t made any end-of-life decisions, leaving me responsible for managing all the details of his life. As I muddled through these responsibilities it became clear that he lived like a guy who thought he just might live forever. Which may explain how he managed to live so long without any major illnesses. He just didn’t worry about details like financial stability and long-term care.

My husband Greg and I had planned a visit to Arizona to close down Dad’s apartment, move him into a new residential care home, and take care of his many financial issues. Two days before this visit we learned that he had developed a blood infection caused by an infected gall bladder, a condition which seemed to explain why he had become so lethargic and despondent. How fortunate that we were able to be with him at the hospital where he successfully pulled through surgery to remove his gall bladder.

Within a few days, the infection that had caused Dad to become delusional and disoriented was under control and he had recovered enough to be able to converse with me. As I sat by his bedside, his frail, fragile appearance weighted my heart with sadness. He had lost the ability to lift his hands and grasp a cup of water or his phone. Even a gentle massage of healing cream into his bruised arms caused him to cry out in pain.

I settled into the hard plastic chair and we talked about everything he had been through over the last two months. I opened and read the many get well cards family and friends had sent him, messages filled with love, comforting scriptures, and prayers. He kept his eyes closed and didn’t verbally respond, although I could tell he heard me. I told him that he was pretty tough to shake Covid pneumonia, even though his other symptoms lingered.

I leaned forward in my chair. “You know Dad, you’ve always been so strong and resilient. I keep thinking you’re going to beat this thing and return to your life again.”

“I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

The stark realization that he might not get better sent a wave of cold fear through my body. I had to leave the next day to make the long drive home. This might be the last time I would talk with him in person. There was so much to say, I didn’t know where to begin.

So I hunkered down in my chair and didn’t say anything for a long while, choosing to just remain quietly present with him. In the muted hum of the hospital room, a melody from many years ago sang to me. The minor chords of a strumming guitar pounded out the words of a vintage folk song.

I’m goin’ home on the mornin’ train.

If you don’t see me you can hear me singin’

All my sins been taken away, taken away

Dad played this song often at my church youth group, a rag tag collection of teenagers who gathered like strays every Sunday night, seekers looking for God during the 70’s Jesus revolution.

I gently placed my hand over his, rousing him. He turned his head and his eyes fluttered open. “Remember that song, Dad? Remember Morning Train, that song the youth group kids always  asked to you to play?”

“Yeah I remember,” Dad said, his voice a raspy whisper. “Can’t play anymore though. My fingers can’t grip the frets like they used to.” He breathed a slow sigh, like even the memory tired him.

“I’m going to give Tim your guitar, okay. He said he would really like to have it.”

“Yeah, he should have it.”

I clenched my jaw, willing my eyes not to rain tears. Not now. He didn’t need that from me. I was glad when his eyes drifted shut again.

I gripped the bed rail and gathered my resolve. “Dad, if you don’t want to do it anymore, if you just don’t feel like you can get out of bed, I’m not going to bug you anymore about that. You get to decide what you can do each day. So just do what you can.”

He nodded, eyes closed.

“I love you Dad and I remember everything good thing about you. You know that, right?”

“I know honey.”

I reached for a cup of ice water and placed the straw between his lips. He breathed hard between small sips, and then said, “That’s enough for now.”

That’s right, Dad. It does seem like that’s enough for now.

I don’t remember how long I sat silently with him, not wanting to tax him, not wanting to add to his pain. But as the clocked ticked into the night, I knew I had to get back to the hotel. Greg and I had a pre-dawn departure time and long day of driving.

“Hey Dad, I have to go now.” I rose from my chair, bent over him and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Greg and I have to leave really early in the morning.”

Dad’s forehead crumpled and his lips drew together, the corners drooping into a tight frown. He would never ask me to stay, but then again, he didn’t have to. His expression told me everything.

“I’m so sorry Dad.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m so thankful for everything you’ve done to help me.”

“I’ll check in with you every day, okay? I’ll be in touch with all your doctors and make sure you have everything you need. I’ll talk with all your friends so they will know how they can visit you. I’ll just have to do all that from home, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be okay.”

I turned, left the room, and hustled towards the elevator. I nearly ran through the hospital doors into the heat of an Arizona night.

*********

I pumped gas into Dad’s old Ford pickup. Even at 5:30 am the embedded heat from Arizona’s relentless sun rose from the concrete, sending oily fumes up my nose, awakening my weary brain. Grasping the nozzle, the smell took me back to the scent of Dad returning home from work, his mechanic’s clothes stained with sweat and motor oil. Dad always smelled like cars, maybe because he loved cars and spent a lot of time tinkering with them.

I stepped up into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the gas station behind Greg who was driving our car ahead of me. We were heading north to Sedona to deliver Dad’s truck to a dear friend who had offered to buy it to help us pay for some of Dad’s medical expenses. We left Phoenix before dawn and headed up Highway 17, the glow of an Arizona sunrise outlining the barren eastern hills.

I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel, feeling how my Dad’s hands had gripped this wheel for over twenty years. As the sun rose, a new understanding dawned on me. What I sensed as resignation was actually acceptance. Dad knew that this illness was his ticket to board the Morning Train. He never spoke those words, but it all made sense now.

I tapped the music app on my phone and opened that old folk song. I cranked up the volume and allowed the haunting melody to crack open the reservoir of tears stored behind my eyes.

I’m on my way to the freedom land

Lord God Almighty hold my hand

All my sins been taken away, taken away

I gripped the wheel harder. The rising sun filtered through my tears, blurring the road ahead.

 

The Morning Train left the station exactly one month from this date.

Although I wasn’t with him, I’m told his departure was swift and peaceful.