Dad's hands

So I want to talk a little bit about my dad’s hands. 

The first thing I’ll say about them is that they were kinda short. Dad was tall so you would think he would get longer, thinner fingers but dad’s hands were stout, actually. His skin tanned pretty easily and he had a generous layer of hair so when I recall them, I see a sort of dark brown color. His hands were also very strong. Not the kind of strong where your veins pop out and you can see all the muscular textures. More like they were just solid. There was a weight to them that you could feel when he gave you a high five or shook your hand. 

Early on he would let me trace my fingers along the lines in his palm as he read me a story or drifted off to sleep. Being a small child I was fascinated by their sheer enormity and dreamed of the day my hands would be that big. 

I remember him teaching me how to write because we were the only two left handed people in the house. Growing up with a family of eight in a house meant for four can challenge your sense of individuality, so getting to share something with dad that was exclusive always felt super special.  He gave me tips on how not to smudge my handwriting, how to make three ring binders work, and when to just learn something with my right hand because it would be easier in the long run. 

One of my last memories with him was actually holding his hand. Dad’s condition had deteriorated and we were in the hospital room waiting. There was a lot of uncertainty. Was it possible for him to pull through? Could hear us? What brain activity was there? What did it mean? and on and on. 

Somewhere between the mundane seconds ticking by and this overwhelming dread, I decided to sit by his bed, close my eyes, and hold his hand. I don’t remember everything clearly but here’s what I do remember:

Tears upon tears rolling down my cheeks. Almost instantly. I prayed in a way I never had before, nor since. I had very few to no words at all. My heart felt more open than it ever has, and I believed God knew me and loved me in the moment. I felt connected to dad in a way I can’t describe. And then there were more tears. 

Sorrowful is the wrong word for it, though it was a deep sadness. It felt both like I was very close to dad while simultaneously feeling him slip away.  A burst of heat that leaves a mark and then cools. 

It would be another 14 hours before the doctors officially declared him dead, and I realized my final moment with him had already passed. I have no assumptions as to exactly when dad’s consciousness was present and when it left, but I have named those last few moments, holding his hand, our goodbye. 

So, now in 2018, here is my newest update on what it’s like to live without dad:

My hands look like his hands. Like...a lot. 

Of course it’s not exact, and of course I understand that genetically it’s probable this would be the case... but to look down and see two stout, hairy, brown hands and be reminded of all that Dad was, and what he taught me, it just feels like an absolute miracle. 

-James